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LIBRARY 

■^T^IVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS, 


^  NOVEL. 


By  ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

Author  of  ''Uncle  Max"  "Only  the  Governess"  Etc. 


/ 


!  \ 


• 


/v  '^  \ 


NEW  YORK ! 

THE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

No.  65  DuANE  Street. 


PA,44-iS" 


NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
five-o'clock  tea. 


Five-o'clock- tea  was  a  great  institution  in  Oldfield. 

It  was  a  form  of  refreshment  to  which  the  female  inhabit- 
ants of  that  delightful  place  were  strongly  addicted.  In  vain 
did  Dr.  Weatherby,  the  great  authority  in  all  that  concerned 
ithe  health  of  the  neighborhood,  lift  up  his  voice  against  the 
Unild  feminine  dram-drinking  of  these  modern  days,  denounc- 
ing it  in  no  measured  terms:  the  ladies  of  Oldfield  listened  in- 
credulously, and,  softly  quoting  Cowper's  lines  as  to  the  "  cup 
that  cheers  and  not  inebriates,"  still  presided  over  their  dainty 
little  tea-tables,  and  vied  with  one  another  in  the  beauty  of 
their  china  and  the  flavor  of  their  highly  scented  Pekoe. 

In  spite  of  J)r.  Weatherby's  sneers  and  innuendoes,  a  great 
deal  of  valuable  time  was  spent  in  lingering  in  one  or  another 
of  the  pleasant  drawing-rooms  of  the  place.  As  the  magic 
hour  approached,  people  dropped  in  casually.  The  elder 
ladies  sipped  their  tea  and  gossiped  softly;  the  younger  ones, 
if  it  were  summer  time,  strolled  out  through  the  open  win- 
dows into  the  garden.  Most  of  the  houses  had  tennis-grounds, 
and  it  was  quite  an  understood  thing  that  a  game  should  be 
played  before  they  separated. 

With  some  few  exceptions,  the  inhabitants  of  Oldfield  were 
wealthy  people.  Handsome  houses  standing  in  their  own 
grounds  were  dotted  here  and  there  among  the  lanes  and 
country  roads.  Some  of  the  big  houses  belonged  to  very  big 
people  indeed;  but  these  were  aristocrats  who  only  lived  in 
their  country  houses  a  few  months  in  the  year,  and  whose 
presence  added  more  to  the  dignity  than  to  the  hilarity  of  the 
neighborhood. 

With  these  exceptions,  the  Oldfield  people  were  highly  gre- 
garious and  hospitable;  in  spite  of  a  few  peculiarities,  they  had 
their  good  points;  a  great  deal  of  gossip  prevailed,  but  it  was 
in  the  main  harmless  and  good-natured.     There  was  a  won- 


4  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  ^ 

derful  simplicity  of  dress,  too,  which  ia  these  days  might  bo 
termed  a  cardinal  virtue.  The  girls  wore  their  fresh  cambrics 
and  plain  straw  hats;  no  one  seemed  to  think  it  necessary  to 
put  on  smart  clothing  when  they  wished  to  visit  their  friends. 
People  said  this  Arcadian  simplicity  was  just  as  studied;  nev- 
ertheless, it  showed  perfection  of  taste  and  a  just  appreciation 
of  things. 

The  house  that  was  considered  the  most  attractive  in  Old- 
field,  and  where,  on  summer  afternoons,  the  sound  of  youth- 
ful voices  and  laughter  were  the  loudest,  was  Glen  Cottage,  a 
small  white  house  adjoining  the  long  village  street,  belonging 
to  a  certain  Mrs.  Challoner,  who  lived  here  with  her  three 
daughters. 

This  may  be  accounted  strange  in  the  first  instance,  since 
the  Challoners  were  people  of  the  most  limited  income — an 
income  so  small  that  nothing  but  the  most  modest  of  enter- 
tainments could  be  furnished  to  their  friends;  very  different 
from  their  neighbors  at  Longmead,  the  large  white  house  ad- 
joining, where  sumptuous  dinners  and  regular  evening  parties 
were  given  in  the  dark  days  when  pleasures  were  few  and  ten- 
nis impossible. 

People  said  it  was  very  good-natured  of  the  Maynes;  but 
then,  when  there  is  an  only  child  in  the  case,  an  honest, 
pleasure-loving,  gay  young  fellow  on  whom  his  parents  dote, 
what  is  it  they  will  not  do  to  please  their  own  flesh  and  blood? 
and,  as  young  Richard  Mayne— or  Dick,  as  he  was  always 
called — loved  all  such  festive  gatherings,  Mrs.  Mayne  loved 
them  too;  and  her  husband  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  his 
tastes  lay  in  the  same  direction,  only  reserving  certain  groans 
for  private  use,  that  Dick  could  not  be  happy  without  a  house 
full  of  young  people. 

But  no  such  entertainments  were  possible  at  Glen  Cottage; 
nevertheless,  the  youth  of  the  neighborhood  flocked  eagerly  m- 
to  the  pleasant  drawing-room  where  Mrs.  Challoner  sat  tran- 
quilly summer  and  winter  to  welcome  her  friends,  or  betook 
themselves  through  the  open  French  windows  into  the  old- 
fashioned  garden,  in  which  mother  and  daughters  took  such 
pride. 

On  hot  afternoons  the  tea-table  was  spread  under  an  acacia- 
tree,  low  wicker-chairs  were  brought  out,  and  rugs  spread  on 
the  lawn,  and  jSan  and  her  sisters  dispensed  strawberries  and 
cream  with  the  delicious  home-made  bread  and  butter;  while 
Mrs.  Challoner  sat  among  a  few  chosen  spirits  knitting  and 
talking  in  her  pleasant  low-toned  voice,  quite  content  that  the 
burden  of  responsibility  should  rest  upon  her  daughters. 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  5 

Mrs,  Cballoiier  ahvaj's  smiled  when  people  told  her  that  she 
ought  to  be  pvoad  of  her  girls.  No  daughters  were  ever  so 
u)uoh  to  their  aiothers  as  hers;  she  simply  lived  in  and  for 
them;  she  saw  with  their  eyes,  thought  with  their  thoughts 
— was  hardly  herself  at  all,  but  Nan  and  Phillis  and  Dulce, 
each  by  turns. 

Long  ago  they  had  grown  up  to  her  growth.  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner's  nature  was  hardly  a  self-sufficing  one.  During  her 
husband's  life-time  she  had  been  braced  by  his  influence  and 
cheered  by  his  example,  and  had  sought  to  guide  her  children 
according  to  his  directions;  in  a  word,  his  manly  strength  had 
so  supported  her  that  no  one,  not  even  her  shrewd  young 
daughters,  guessed  at  the  interior  weakness. 

When  her  stay  was  removed,  Mrs.  Challoner  ceased  to  guide, 
ajid  came  down  to  her  children's  level.  She  was  more  like 
their  sister  than  their  mother,  people  said;  and  yet  no  mother 
was  more  cherished  than  she. 

Her  very  weakness  made  her  sacred  in  her  daughters* 
eyes;  her  widowhood,  and  a  certain  failure  of  health,  made 
her  the  subject  of  their  choicest  care. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  there  was  much  amiss,  but  years 
ago  a  doctor  whom  Mrs.  Challoner  had  consulted  had  looked 
grave,  and  mentioned  the  name  of  a  disease  of  which  certain 
symptoms  reminded  him.  There  was  no  ground  for  present 
a[)piehension;  the  whole  thing  was  very  shadow.y  and  unsub- 
stantial— a  mere  hint — a  question  of  care;  nevertheless,  the 
word  had  been  said,  and  the  mischief  done. 

From  that  time  Mrs.  Challoner  was  wont  to  speak  gloomily 
of  her  health,  as  of  one  doomed.  She  was  by  nature  languid 
and  lymphatic,  but  now  her  languor  increased;  always  averse 
to  effort,  she  now  left  all  action  to  her  daughters.  It  was  they 
who  decided  and  regulated  the  affairs  of  their  modest  house- 
hold, and  rarely  were  such  wise  rulers  to  be  found  in  girls  of 
their  age.  Mrs.  Challoner  merely  acquiesced,  for  in  Glen 
Cottage  there  was  seldom  a  dissentient  voice,  unless  it  were 
that  oC  Dorothy,  who  had  been  Dulce's  nurse,  and  took  upon 
herself  the  airs  of  an  old  servant  who  could  not  be  replaced. 

They  were  all  pretty  girls,  the  three  Misses  Challoner,  but 
Nan  was;jar  excellence  the  prettiest.  No  one  could  deny  that 
fact  who  saw  them  together.  Her  features  were  more  regular 
than  her  sisters',  and  her  color  more  transparent.  She  was 
(all,  too,  and  her  figure  had  a  certain  willowy  grace  that  was 
most  uncommon;  but  what  attracted  people  most  was  a 
frankness  and  unconsciousness  of  manner  that  was  perfectly 
charming. 


6  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Phillis,  the  second  sister,  was  not  absolutely  pretty,  perhaps, 
but  she*  was  nice  looking,  and  there  was  something  in  her  ex- 
pression that  made  people  say  she  was  clever;  she  could  talk 
on  occasions  with  a  fluency  that  was  quite  surprising,  and  that 
would  cast  Nan  into  the  shade.  "  If  I  were  only  as  clever  as 
Phillis!"  Nan  would  sigh. 

Then  there  was  Dulce,  who  was  only  just  eighteen,  and 
whom  her  sisters  treated  as  the  family  pet;  who  was  light  and 
small  and  nimble  in  her  movements,  and  looked  even  youtiger 
than  she  really  was. 

Nobody  ever  noticed  if  Dulce  were  pretty;  no  one  questioned 
if  her  features  were  regular  or  not,  or  carpd  to  do  such  a  thing. 
Only  when  she  smiled,  the  prettiest  dimple  came  into  her 
cheek,  and  her  eyes  had  a  fearless  childlike  look  in  them;  for 
the  rest,  she  was  just  Dulce. 

The  good-looking  daughters  of  a  good-looking  mother,  as 
somebody  called  them;  and  there  was  no  denying  that  Mrs. 
Challoner  was  still  wonderfully  well  preserved,  and,  in  spite  of 
her  languor  and  invalid  airs,  a  very  pretty  woman. 

Five-o'clock  tea  had  long  been  over  at  the  cottage  this  after- 
noon, and  a  somewhat  lengthy  game  of  tennis  had  followed; 
after. which  the  visitors  had  dispersed  as  usual,  and  the  girls 
had  come  in  to  prepare  for  the  half  past  seven-o'clock  dinner; 
for  Glen  Cottage  followed  the  fashion  of  its  richer  neighbors, 
and  set  out  its  frugal  meal  with  a  proper  accompaniment  of 
flower-vases  and  evening  toilet. 

The  three  sisters  came  up  the  lawn  together,  but  Kan  car- 
ried her  racket  a  little  languidly;  she  looked  a  trifle  grave. 

Mrs.  Challoner  laid  down  her  knitting  and  looked  at  them, 
and  then  she  regarded  her  watch  plaintively. 

"  Is  it  late,  mother?"  asked  Nan,  who  never  missed  any  of 
her  mother's  movements.  "  Ten  minutes  past  seven!  No 
wonder  the  afternoon  seemed  long.*' 

"  No  one  found  it  long  but  Nan,"  observed  Dulce,  with  an 
arcli  glance  at  her  sister,  at  which  Nan  slightly  colored,  but 
took  no  further  notice.  "  By  the  bye,"  she  continued,  as 
though  struck  by  a  sudden  recollection,  "  what  can  have  be- 
come of  Dick  this  afternoon?  He  so  seldom  fails  us  without 
telling  us  beforehand." 

"  That  will  soon  be  explained,"  observed  Phillis,  oracularly, 
as  the  gate-bell  sounded,  and  was  immediately  followed  by 
sharp  footsteps  on  the  gravel  and  the  unceremonious  entrance 
of  a  young  man  through  the  open  window. 

"  Better  late  than  never,"  exclaimed  two  of  the  girls.  Nan 
Bftid:  "  Why,  what  has  made  you  play  truant,  Dick?"  in  a 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  7 

slightly  injured  voice.  But  Mrs.  Challoner  merely  smiled  at 
him,  aud  said  nothing;  young  men  were  her  natural  enemies, 
and  she  knew  it.  She  was  civil  to  them  and  endured  their 
company,  and  that  was  ail. 

Dicli  Mayne  was  not  a  formidable-looiiing  individual;  he 
was  a  strong,  thick-set  young  fellow,  with  broad  shoulders, 
not  much  above  middle  height,  and  decidedly  plain,  except  in 
his  mother's  eyes;  and  she  thought  even  Dick's  sandy  hair 
beautiful. 

But  in  spite  of  his  plainness  he  was  a  pleasant,  well-bred 
young  fellow,  with  a  fund  of  good  humor  and  drollery,  and  a 
pair  of  honest  eyes  that  people  learised  to  trust.  Every  one 
liked  him,  and  no  one  ever  said  a  word  in  his  dispraise;  aud 
for  the  rest,  he  could  tyrannize  as  royally  as  any  other  young 
man  who  is  his  family's  sole  blessing. 

"  It  was  all  my  ill  luck,"  grumbled  Dick.  "  Trevanion  of 
Exeter  came  over  to  our  place,  and  of  course  the  mater  pressed 
him  to  stay  for  luncheon;  and  then  nothing  would  do  but  a 
long  walk  over  Hilberry  Downs." 

"  Why  did  you  not  bring  him  here?"  interrupted  Dulce, 
with  a  pout.  "  You  tiresome  Dick,  when  you  must  know 
what  a  godsend  a  strange  young  man  is  in  these  wilds!" 

"  My  dear!"  reproved  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  true,  mamma,"  persisted  the  outspoken 
Dulce.  "  Think  how  pleased  Carrie  and  Sophie  Paine  would 
have  been  at  the  sight  of  a  fresh  face!  It  was  horrid  of  you, 
sir!" 

"  1  wanted  him  to  come,"  returned  the  young  man,  in  a 
deprecating  voice.  "  I  told  him  how  awfully  jolly  it  always 
is  here,  and  that  he  would  be  sure  to  meet  a  lot  of  nice  peo- 
ple, but  there  was  no  persuading  him;  he  wanted  a  walk  and 
a  talk  about  our  fellows.  That  is  the  worst  of  Trevanion,  he 
always  will  have  his  own  way." 

"  Never  mind,"  returneii  Nan,  pleasantly;  she  seemed  to 
have  recovered  her  sprightliness  all  at  once.  "  It  is  very 
good  of  you  to  come  so  often;  and  we  had  Mr.  Parker  and  his 
cousin  to  look  after  the  Paines." 

"  Oh,  yes!  we  did  very  well,"  observed  Phillis,  tranquilly, 
*'  Mother,  now  Dick  has  come  so  late,  he  had  better  stay." 

"  If  I  only  may  do  so?"  returned  Dick;  but  his  inquiry  was 
directed  to  Nan. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  may  stay,*'  she  remarked,  carelessly,  as  she 
moved  away;  but  there  was  a  little  pleased  smile  on  her  face 
ihat  he  failed  to  see.  She  nodded  pleasaii'.ly  to  hini  as  he 
da:ted  forward  to  open  the  door.     It  was  Nan  who  always 


^  itOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

dispensed  the  hospitalities  of  the  house,  whose  decision  was  un- 
alterable. Dick  had  learned  what  it  was  to  be  sent  about  his 
business;  only  once  had  he  dared  to  remain  without  her  sov- 
ereign permission,  and  on  that  occasion  he  had  been  treated 
by  her  with  such  dignified  politeness  that  he  would  rather 
have  been  sent  to  Coventry. 

This  evening  the  fates  were  propitious,  and  Dick  under- 
stood that  the  scepter  of  favor  was  to  be  extended  to  him. 
When  the  girls  had  flitted  into  the  little  dusky  hall  he  closed 
the  door  and  sat  down  happily  beside  Mrs.  Challoner,  to 
whom  he  decanted  eloquently  of  the  beauties  of  Hilberry  and 
the  virtues  of  Ned  Trevanion. 

Mrs.  Challoner  listened  placidly  as  the  knitting-needles 
flashed  between  her  long  white  fingers.  She  was  very  fond  of 
Dick,  after  her  temperate  fashion;  she  had  known  him  from 
a  child,  and  seen  him  grow  up  among  them  until  he  had  be- 
come like  a  son  of  the  bouse.  Dick,  who  had  no  brothers  and 
sisters  of  his  own,  and  whose  parents  had  not  married  until 
they  were  long  past  youth,  had  adopted  brotherly  airs  with 
the  Challoner  girls;  they  called  one  another  by  their  Christian 
names,  and  he  reposed  in  them  the  confidences  that  young 
men  are  wont  to  give  to  their  belongings. 

With  Nan  this  easy  familiarity  had  of  late  merged  into 
something  different:  a  reserve,  a  timidity,  a  subtile  suspicion 
of  change  had  crept  into  their  intimacy.  Nan  felt  that  Dick's 
manner  had  altered,  but  somehow  she  liked  it  better;  his  was 
always  a  sweet,  bountiful  nature,  but  now  it  seemed  to  have 
deepened  into  greater  manliness.  Dick  was  growing  older; 
Oxford  training  was  polishing  him.  After  each  one  of  his 
brief  absences  Nan  saw  a  greater  change,  a  more  marked  def- 
erence, and  secretly  hoped  that  no  one  else  noticed  it.  When 
the  young  undergraduate  wrote  dutiful  letters  home,  the  long- 
est messages  were  always  for  Nan;  when  he  carried  little  offer- 
ings of  flowers  to  his  young  neighbors,  Nan's  bouquet  was  al- 
ways the  choicest;  he  distinguished  her,  too,  on  all  occasions 
by  those  small,  nameless  attentions  which  never  fail  to  please. 

Nan  kept  her  own  counsel,  and  never  spoke  of  those  things. 
She  said  openly  that  Dick  was  very  nice  and  very  much  im- 
proved, and  that  they  always  missed  him  sadly  during  the  Ox 
ford  terms;  but  she  never  breathed  a  syllable  that  might  make 
people  suspect  that  this  very  ordinary  young  man  with  sandy 
hair  was  more  to  her  than  other  young  men.  Nevertheless, 
Phillis  and  Dulce  knew  that  such  was  the  case,  and  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner understood  that  the  most  dangerous  enemy  to  her 
peace  was  this  lively  spoken  Dick. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS  9 

Dick  was  very  amusing,  for  he  was  an  eloquent  young  fel- 
low: nevortheiess,  Mrs.  Challoner  sighed  more  than  once,  and 
her  attention  visibly  wandered;  seeing  which,  Dick  good- 
humoredly  left  off  talking,  and  began  inspecting  the  different 
articles  in  Nan's  work-basket. 

"  I  am  afraid  1  have  given  your  mother  a  headache/'  he 
said,  when  they  were  sitting  round  the  circular  table  in  the 
low,  oddly  shaped  dining-room.  There  was  a  corner  cut  off, 
and  the  windows  were  in  unexpected  places,  which  made  it 
unlike  other  rooms;  but  Dick  loved  it  better  than  the  great 
dining-room  at  Longmead;  and  somehow  it  had  never  looked 
cozier  to  him  than  it  did  this  evening.  It  was  somewhat  dark, 
owing  to  the  shade  of  the  veranda;  so  the  lamp  was  lighted,  and 
the  pleasant  scent  of  roses  and  lilies  came  through  the  open 
windows.  A  belated  wasp  hovered  round  the  specimen  glasses 
that  Nan  had  filled;  Dick  tried  to  make  havoc  of  the  enemy 
with  his  table-napkin.  The  girls'  white  dresses  suited  their 
fresh  young  faces.  Nan  had  fastened  a  crimson  rose  in  her 
gown;  Phillis  and  Dulee  had  knots  of  blue  ribbon.  "  Tre- 
vaiiiou  does  not  know  what  he  lost  by  his  obstinacy,"  thought 
Dick  as  he  glanced  round  the  table. 

"  What  were  you  and  the  mother  discussing?"  asked  Dulce, 
curiously. 

"  Dick  was  telling  me  about  his  friend.  He  seemed  a  very 
superior  young  man,"  returned  Mrs.  Challoner.  "  I  suppose 
you  have  asked  him  for  your  party  next  week?" 

Dick  turned  very  red  at  this  question.  "  Mater  asked  him; 
you  may  trust  her  for  that.  If  it  were  not  for  father,  I  think 
she  would  turn  the  whole  house  out  of  the  windows:  every  day 
some  one  fresh  is  invited." 

"  How  delightful!  and  all  in  your  honor,'*  exclaimed  Dulce, 
mischievously. 

"  That  spoils  the  whole  thing,"  grumbled  the  heir  of  the 
Maynes  "  it  is  a  perfect  shame  that  a  fellow  can  not  come  of 
age  quietly,  without  his  people  making  this  fuss.  I  begin  to 
think  I  was  a  fool  for  my  nains  to  refuse  the  ball." 

"  Yes,  indeed;  just  because  you  were  afraid  ot  the  supper 
speeches,"  laughed  Dulce,  "  when  we  all  wanted  it  so." 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  Dick,  sturdily;  "  the  mater  shall 
give  us  one  in  the  winter,  and  we  will  have  Godfrey's  Baud, 
and  I  will  get  all  our  fellows  to  come." 

"  That  will  be  delightful,"  observed  Nan,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled — already  she  saw  herself  led  out  for  the  first  dance  by 
the  son  of  the  house — but  Dulce  interrupted  her; 

"  But  all  the  same,  I  wish  Dick  had  not  been    o  stupid 


(< 


10  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

about  it.  Ko  one  knows  what  may  happen  before  the  winter. 
I  hate  put-off  things," 

"  '  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush ' — eh.  Miss 
Dulce?" 

"  Yes,  indeed;  that  proverb  is  truer  than  people  think/* 
she  replied,  with  a  wise  nod  of  her  head.  "  Don't  you  re- 
member, Nan,  when  the  Parkers'  dance  was  put  oS,  and  then 
old  Mr.  Parker  died;  and  nearly  the  same  thing  happened 
with  the  Normantons,  only  it  was  an  uncle  in  that  case.'^ 

"  Moral:  never  put  off  a  dance,  in  case  somebody  dies." 

"  Oh,  hush,  please!"  groaned  Isan,  in  a  shocked  voice;  "  1 
don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  about  such  dreadful  things.  After 
all,  it  is  such  delicious  weather  that  I  am  not  sure  a  garden- 
party  will  not  be  more  enjoyable;  and  yuu  know,  Dulce,  that 
we  are  to  dance  on  the  lawn  if  we  like." 

"  And  supposing  it  should  rain,"  put  in  that  extremely 
troublesome  young  person,  at  which  suggestion  Dick  looked 
very  gloomy. 

"  In  tbat  case  I  think  we  must  persuade  Mrs.  Mayne  to 
clear  a  room  for  us,"  returned  Nan,  cheerfully.  "  If  your 
mother  consults  me,'^  she  continued,  addressing  Dick,  who 
visibly  brightened  at  this,  "  I  shall  recommend  her  to  empty 
the  front  drawing-rooui  as  much  as  possible.  There  is  the 
grand  piano,  or  the  band  might  come  in-doors;  there  will  be 
plenty  of  room  for  the  young  people,  and  the  non-dancers  can 
be  drafted  off  into  the  inner  drawing-room  and  conservatory.'* 

*'  What  a  head  you  have!"  exclaimed  Dick,  admiringly; 
and  Phillis,  who  had  not  joined  in  the  argument,  was 
pleased  to  observe  that  she  was  quite  of  Nan's  opinion:  danc- 
ing was  imperative,  and  if  the  lawns  were  wet  they  must  man- 
age in-doors  somehow.  "  It  would  never  do  for  people  to  be 
bored  and  lislless,'*  finished  the  young  lady,  sententiously,  and 
such  was  Phillis's  cleverness  that  it  was  understood  at  once 
that  the  oracle  had  spoken;  but  then  it  was  never  known  for 
Nan  and  Phillis  to  differ. 

Things  being  thus  amicably  arranged,  the  rest  of  the  con- 
versaticu  flowed  evenly  on  every  other  point,  such  as  the  ar- 
rangements of  the  tennis-matches  in  the  large  meadow,  and 
the  exact  position  of  the  marquees;  but  just  as  they  were  leav- 
ing the  table  Dick  said  another  word  to  Nan  in  a  somewhat 
low  voice: 

"  It  is  all  very  well,  but  this  sort  of  thing  does  make  a  fel- 
low feel  such  a  conceited  fool." 

"  If  I  were  you  I  would  not  think  about  it  at  all,"  she  re- 
turned in  her  sensible  way.     *'  The  neighborhood  will  expect 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIEL8.  11 

something  of  the  kind,  and  we  owe  a  little  to  the  other  peo- 
ple; then  it  pleases  your  mother  to  make  a  fuss,  as  you  call 
it,  and  it  would  be  too  ungrateful  to  disappoint  her." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,''  he  returned,  in  a  slightly 
mollified  tone,  for  he  was  a  modest  young  fellow,  and  the 
whole  business  had  occasioned  him  some  soreness  of  spirit. 
**  Take  it  all  in  all,  one  has  an  awful  lot  to  go  through  in  life; 
tJiere  are  the  measels,  you  know,  and  whooping-cough,  and 
the  dentist,  and  one's  examination,  and  no  end  of  unpleasant 
things;  but  to  be  made  by  one's  own  mother  to  feel  like  an 
idiot  for  a  whole  afternoon!  Never  mind;  it  can  be  got 
through  somehow,"  finished  the  young  philosopher,  with  a 
sigh  that  sent  Nan  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DICK   OBJECTS   TO  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

"  Shall  we  have  our  usual  stroll?"  asked  Phillis,  as  Nan 
and  Dick  joined  her  at  the  window. 

This  was  one  of  the  customs  at  Glen  Cottage.  When  any 
such  fitting  escort  offered  itself,  the  three  girls  would  put  on 
their  hats,  and,  regardless  of  the  evening  dews  and  their  crisp 
white  dresses,  would  saunter,  under  Dick's  guidance,  through 
the  quiet  village,  or  down  and  up  the  country  roads  "  just  for 
a  breath  of  air,"  as  they  would  say. 

It  is  only  fair  to  Mrs.  Challoner's  views  of  propriety  to  say 
that  she  would  have  trusted  her  three  pretty  daughters  to  no 
other  young  man  but  Dick;  and  of  late  certain  prudential 
doubts  had  crossed  her  mind.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Phillis 
to  v&Y  Dick  was  Dick,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  After  all, 
he  belonged  to  the  phalanx  of  her  enemies,  those  shadowy  in- 
vaders of  her  hearth  that  threatened  her  maternal  peace. 
Dick  was  not  a  boy  any  longer,  he  had  outgrown  his  hobblede- 
hoy ways;  the  slight  sandy  mustache  that  he  so  proudly  caressed 
was  not  a  greater  proof  of  his  manhood  than  the  undefinable 
change  that  had  passed  over  his  manners. 

Mrs.  Challoner  began  to  distrust  these  evening  strolls,  and 
to  turn  over  in  her  own  mind  various  wary  pretexts  for  de- 
tailing Nan  on  the  next  occasion. 

"Just  this  once,  perhaps  it  does  not  matter,"  she  mur- 
mured to  herself,  as  she  composed  herself  to  her  usual  nap. 

"  We  shall  not  be  long,  little  mother;  so  you  must  not  be 
dull,"  Dulee  had  said,  kissing  her  lightly  over  her  eyes.  This 
was  just  one  of  the  pleasant  fictions  at  the  cottage — one  of 


13  irOT    LIKE    OTHEJt    GIRLS. 

those  graceful  little  deceptions  that  are  so  harmless  in  fami- 
lies. 

Dulce  knew  of  those  placid  after-dinner  naps.  She  knew  her 
mother's  eyes  would  only  unclose  when  Dorothy  brought  in 
the  tea-tray;  but  she  was  also  conscious  that  nothing  would 
displease  her  mother  more  than  to  notice  this  habit.  When 
they  lingered  in-doors,  and  talked  in  whispers  so  as  not  to  dis- 
turb her,  Mrs.  Challouer  had  an  extraordinary  facility  for 
striking  into  the  conversation  in  a  way  that  was  somewhat 
confusing. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  she  would  say,  in  a  drowsy 
voice.  "  Is  it  not  time  for  Dorothy  to  bring  in  the  tea?  1 
wish  you  would  all  talk  louder.  I  must  be  getting  a  little 
deaf,  I  think,  for  I  don't  hear  half  you  say." 

"  Oh,  it  was  only  nonsense  talk,  mammie,"  Dulce  would  an- 
swer; and  the  sisterly  chit-chat  would  recommence,  and  her 
mother's  head  nid-nodded  on  the  cushions  until  the  next  in- 
terruption. 

"  We  shall  not  have  many  more  of  these  strolls,"  observed 
Dick,  regretfully,  as  they  walked  together  through  the  village, 
and  then  branched  off  into  a  long  country  road,  where  the  air 
blew  freshly  in  their  faces  and  low  mists  hung  over  the 
meadow-land.  Though  it  was  not  quite  dark,  there  was  a  tiny 
moon,  and  the  glimmer  of  a  star  or  two;  and  there  was  a 
pleasant  fragrance  as  of  new-mown  grass. 

They  were  all  walking  abreast,  and  keeping  step,  and  Dick 
was  in  the  middle  with  Nan  beside  him.  Dulce  was  hanging 
on  to  her  arm,  and  every  now  and  then  breaking  into  little 
snatches  of  song. 

"  How  1  envy  you!"  exclaimed  Phillis.  "  Think  of  spend- 
ing three  \\hole  mouths  in  Switzerland!     Oh,  you  lucky  Dick!" 

For  the  Mayneshad  decided  to  pass  the  long  vacation  in  the 
Eugadme.  Some  hints  had  been  dropped  that  Nan  should 
accompany  them,  but  Mrs.  Chal loner  had  regarded  the  invi- 
tation with  some  disfavor,  and  Mrs.  Mayne  had  not  pressed 
the  point.  If  only  Nan  had  known!  but  her  mother  had  in 
this  matter  kept  her  own  counsel. 

"  1  don't  know  about  that,"  dissented  Dick;  he  was  rather 
given  to  argue  from  the  mere  pleasure  of  opposition.  "  Mount- 
ains and  glaciers  are  all  very  well  in  their  way;  but  I  think, 
on  the  whole,  I  would  as  soon  be  here.  You  see,  I  am  so 
accustomed  to  mix  up  with  a  lot  of  fellows,  that  I  am  afraid 
of  finding  the  pater's  sole  company  rather  slow." 

"  For  shame!"    remarked  his    usual  monitress.     But  she 


NOT    LIKIE    OtHER    GIRLS.  18 

spoke  gently;  in  her  heart  she  knew  why  Dick  failed  to  find 
the  mountains  alluring. 

"  Why  could  not  one  of  you  girls  join  us?"  he  continued, 
wrathfully.  The  rogue  had  fairly  bullied  the  unwilling  Mrs. 
Mayne  into  giving  that  invitation. 

"  Do  ask  her,  mother;  she  will  be  such  a  nice  com[)anion 
for  you  when  the  pater  and  1  are  doing  our  climbing;  do, 
there's  a  dear  good  soul!"  he  coaxed.  And  the  dear  good 
soul,  who  was  secretly  jealous  of  Nan  and  loved  her  about  as 
much  as  mothers  usually  love  an  only  son's  choice,  had  be- 
wailed her  hard  fate  in  secret,  and  had  then  stepped  over  to 
the  cottage  with  a  bland  and  cheerful  exterior,  which  grew 
more  cheerful  as  Mrs.  Challoner's  reluctance  made  itself  felt. 

"  It  is  not  wise;  it  will  throw  them  so  much  together," 
Nan's  mother  had  said.  "  If  it  were  only  Phillis  or  Dulce; 
but  you  must  have  noticed — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  1  have  noticed!"  returned  Mrs.  Mayne,  hastily. 
She  was  a  stout,  comely  looking  woman,  but  beside  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  she  looked  like  a  housekeeper  dressed  in  her  mistress's 
smart  clothes.  Mrs.  Mayne's  dresses  never  seemed  to  belong 
to  her;  it  could  not  be  said  that  they  fitted  her  ill,  but  there 
was  a  want  of  adaptability — a  lack  of  taste  that  failed  to  ac- 
cord with  her  florid  style  of  beauty. 

She  had  been  a  handsome  woman  when  Eichard  Mayne 
married  her,  but  a  certain  deepening  of  tints  and  broadening 
of  contour  had  not  improved  the  mistress  of  Longmead.  Her 
husband  was  a  decided  contrast:  but  he  was  a  small,  wiry  man, 
with  sharp  features  that  expressed  a  great  deal  of  shrewdness. 
Dick  had  got  his  sandy  hair;  but  Richard  Mayne  the  elder 
had  not  his  son's  honest,  kindly  eyes.  Mr.  Mayne's  were 
small  and  twinkling;  he  had  a  way  of  looking  at  people  be- 
tween his  half-closed  lids  in  a  manner  half  sharp  and  half 
jocular. 

He  was  not  vulgar,  far  from  it;  but  he  had  a  homely  air 
about  him  that  spoke  of  the  self-made  man.  He  was  rather 
fond  of  telling  people  that  his  father  had  been  in  trade  in  a 
small  may,  and  that  he  himself  had  been  the  sole  architect  of 
his  fortune.  "  Look  at  Dick,"  he  would  say;  "  he  would 
never  have  a  penny,  that  fellow,  unless  1  made  it  for  him;  he 
has  come  into  the  world  to  find  his  bread  ready  buttered.  I 
had  to  be  content  with  a  crust  as  I  could  earn  it.  The  lad's 
a  cut  above  us  both,  though  he  has  the  good  taste  to  try  and 
hide  it." 

This  sagacious  speech  was  very  true.  Dick  would  never 
ha7e  succeeded  as  a  business  man;  he  was  too  full  of  crotchets 


l4  NOT    LIKE    OTHEll    GlKLS. 

and  speculations  to  be  content  to  run  in  narrow  grooves.  The 
notion  of  money-making  was  abhorrent  to  him;  the  idea  of  a 
city  life,  with  its  hard  rubs  and  drudgery,  was  utterly  distaste- 
ful to  him.  "  One  would  have  to  mix  with  such  a  lot  of 
cads,"  he  would  say.  "  English,  pure  and  undefiled,  is  not 
always  spoken.  If  I  must  work,  I  would  rather  have  a  turn 
at  law  or  divinity;  the  three  old  women  with  the  eye  between 
them  knows  which.'' 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  Dick  winced  a  little  at  his  fa- 
ther's homely  speeches;  but  in  his  heart  he  was  both  proud 
and  fond  of  him,  and  was  given  to  assert  to  a  few  of  his  closest 
friends  "  that,  take  it  all  in  all,  and  looking  at  other  fellows' 
fathers,  he  was  a  rattling  good  sort,  and  no  mistake." 

When  Mrs.  Challoner  had  entered  her  little  protest  against 
her  daughter's  acceptance  of  the  invitation,  Mrs.  Mayne  had 
risen  and  kissed  her  with  some  effusion  as  she  took  her  leave. 

"  It  is  so  nice  of  you  to  say  this  to  me;  of  course  I  should 
have  been  pleased,  delighted  to  have  had  Nan  with  us  "  (oh, 
Mrs.  Mayne,  fy  for  shame!  when  you  want  your  boy  to  your- 
self), "  but  all  the  same  I  think  you  are  so  wise." 

"  Poor  child!  1  am  afraid  I  am  refusing  her  a  great  treat," 
returned  Mrs.  Challoner,  in  a  tone  of  regret.  It  was  the  first 
time  since  her  husband's  death  that  she  had  ever  decided  any- 
thing without  reference  to  her  daughters;  but  for  once  her 
maternal  fears  were  up  in  arms,  and  drove  her  to  sudden  reso- 
lution. 

"  Yes,  but,  as  you  observed,  it  would  throw  them  so  entire- 
ly together;  and  Dick  is  so  young.  Eichard  was  only  saying 
the  other  night  that  he  hoped  the  boy  would  not  fancy  him- 
self in  love  for  the  next  two  years,  as  he  did  not  approve  of 
such  early  engagements. " 

"  Neither  do  I,"  returned  Mrs.  Challoner,  quickly.  "  Noth- 
ing would  annoy  me  more  than  for  one  of  my  daughters  to 
entangle  herself  with  so  young  a  man.  We  know  the  world 
too  well  for  that,  Mrs.  Mayne.  Why,  Dick  may  fall  in  and 
out  of  love  half  a  dozen  times  before  he  really  makes  up  his 
mind. " 

'*  Ah,  that  is  what  Richard  says,'*  returned  Dick's  mother, 
with  a  sigh;  in  her  heart  she  was  not  quite  of  her  husband's 
opinion.  She  remembered  how  that  long  waiting  wasted  her 
own  youth — waiting  for  what?  For  comforts  that  she  would 
gladly  have  done  without — for  a  well-fnrnished  house,  when 
she  would  have  lived  happily  in  the  poorest  lodging  with  the 
Eichard  Mayne  who  had  won  her  heart— for  whom  she  would 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS.  15 

have  toiled  and  slaved  with  the  self-abnegating  devotion  of  a 
loving  woman,  otily  he  feared  to  have  it  so. 

"  '  When  poverty  eaters  the  door,  love  flies  out  of  the  win- 
dow;' we  had  better  make  up  our  minds  to  wait,  Bessie.  I 
can  better  work  in  single  than  double  harness  just  now." 
That  was  what  he  said  to  her;  and  Bessie  waited — not  till  she 
grew  thin,  but  stout,  and  the  spirit  of  her  youth  was  gone; 
and  it  was  a  sober,  middle-aged  woman  who  took  possession  of 
the  long-expected  home. 

Mrs,  Mayne  loved  her  husband,  but  during  that  tedious 
engagement  her  ardor  had  a  little  cooled,  and  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  the  younger  Richard  was  not  dearer  to  her 
than  his  father;  which  was  ungrateful,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
as  Mr.  Mayne  doted  on  his  comely  wife,  and  thought  Bessie  as 
handsome  now  as  in  the  days  when  she  came  out  smiling  to 
welcome  him,  a  slim  young  creature  with  youthful  roses  in 
her  cheeks. 

From  this  brief  conversation  it  may  be  seen  that  none  of  the 
elders  quite  approved  of  this  budding  affection.  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner,  who  belonged  to  a  good  old  famil}' ,  found  it  hard  to  for- 
give the  Maynes'  lowliness  of  birth;  and  though  she  liked  Dick, 
she  thought  Nan  could  do  better  for  herself.  Mr.  Mayne 
pooh-poohed  the  whole  thing  so  entirely  that  the  women  could 
only  speak  of  it  among  themselves. 

*'  Dick  is  a  clever  fellow;  he  ought  to  marry  money,"  he 
would  say.  "  I  am  not  a  millionaire,  and  a  little  more  would 
be  acceptable;"  and,  though  he  was  always  kind  to  Nan  and 
her  sisters,  he  was  forever  dealing  sly  hits  at  her.  "  Phillis 
has  the  brains  of  the  family,"  he  would  say;  "  that  is  the  girl 
for  my  money.  1  call  her  a  vast  deal  better  looking  than  Nan, 
though  people  make  such  a  fuss  about  the  other  one;"  a 
speech  he  was  never  tired  of  repeating  in  his  son's  presence, 
and  at  which  Dick  snapped  his  finger  metaphorically  and  said 
nothing. 

When  Dick  wished  that  one  of  them  were  going  to  Switzer- 
land, Nan  sighed  furtively.  Dick  was  going  away  for  three 
months,  for  the  remainder  of  the  long  vacation.  After  next 
week  they  would  not  see  him  until  Christmas — near  six 
months.  A  sense  of  dreariness,  as  new  as  it  was  strange, 
swept  momentarily  over  Nan  as  she  pondered  this.  The  sum- 
mer mouths  would  be  grievously  clouded.  Dick  had  been  the 
moving  spirit  of  all  the  fun;  the  tennis-parties,  the  pleasant 
dawdling  afternoons,  would  lose  their  zest  when  he  was  away. 
She  remembered  how  persistently  he  had  haunted  their  foo't- 
gteps.     When  they  paid  visits  to  the  Manor  House,  or  Garden- 


16  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

hurst,  or  Fitzrny  Lodge,  Diok  was  sure  to  put  fn  an  appear- 
ance. People  had  nicknamed  him  the  "  Challoners'"  Squire;'^ 
but  now  Nan  must  go  squireless  for  the  rest  of  the  summer, 
unless  she  took  compassion  on  Stanley  Parker,  or  that  dread- 
ful chatter-box  his  cousin. 

The  male  population  was  somewhat  sparse  at  Oldfield. 
There  were  a  few  Eton  boys,  and  one  or  two  in  that  delightful 
transition  age  when  youth  is  most  bashful  and  uninterestmg — 
a  sort  of  unfledged  manhood,  when  the  smooth,  boyish  cheek 
contradicts  the  deepened  bass  of  the  voice — an  age  that  has 
not  ceased  to  blush,  and  which  is  full  of  aggravating  idio- 
syncrasies and  unexpected  angles. 

To  be  sure,  Lord  Fitzroy  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  a 
young  guardsman,  but  he  had  lately  taken  to  himself  a  wife; 
and  Sir  Alfred  Mostyn,  who  was  also  somewhat  attractive  and 
a-very  pleasant  fellow,  and  unattached  at  present,  had  a  tire- 
some habit  of  rushing  off  to  Norway,  or  St.  Petersburg,  or 
Niagara,  or  the  Rocky  Mountains,  for  what  he  termed  sport, 
or  a  lark. 

"  Itseems  we  are  very  stupid  this  evening,"  observed  Phillis, 
for  Dick  had  waxed  almost  as  silent  as  Nan.  "  1  think  the 
mother  must  nearly  have  finished  her  nap,  so  I  propose  we  go 
back  and  have  some  tea;"  and,  as  Nan  languidly  acquiesced, 
they  turned  their  faces  toward  the  village  again,  Dulce  still 
holding  firmly  to  Nan's  arm.  By  and  by  Dick  struck  out  in 
a  fresh  direction. 

"  I  say,  don't  you  wish  we  could  have  last  week  over 
again?" 

"Yes!  oh,  yes!  was  it  not  too  delicious?"  from  the 
three  girls;  and  Nan  added,  "  I  never  enjoyed  anything  so 
much  in  my  life,"  in  a  tone  so  fervent  that  Dick  was  de- 
lighted. 

"  What  a  brick  your  mother  was.  to  be  sure,  to  spare  you 
all!" 

"  Yes;  and  she  was  so  dull,  poor  dear,  all  the  time  we  were 
away.  Dorothy  gave  us  quite  a  pitiful  account  when  we  got 
home." 

"  It  was  a  treat  one  ouglit  to  remember  all  one's  life,"  ob- 
served Phillis,  quite  solemnly;  and  then  ensued  a  most  ani- 
mated discussion. 

The  treat  to  which  Phillis  alluded  had  been  simply  perfect 
in  the  three  girls'  eyes.  Dick,  who  never  forgot  his  friehds, 
had  so  worked  upon  his  mother  that  she  had  consented  to 
chaperon  the  three  sisters  during  Commemoration;  and  a  con- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS.  17 

sent  being  fairly  coaxed  out  of  Mrs.  dial  loner,  the  plan  was 
put  into  execution. 

Dick,  who  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight,  found 
roomy  lodgings  in  the  High  Street,  in  which  he  installed  his 
enraptured  guests. 

The  five  days  that  followed  were  simply  hours  snatched  out 
of  fairy-land  to  these  four  happy  young  creatures.  No  won- 
der envious  looks  were  cast  at  Dick  as  he  walked  in  Christ 
Church  Meadows  with  Nan  and  Dulce,  Phillis  bringing  up  the 
rear  somewhat  soberly  with  Mrs.  Mayne. 

"  One  pretty  face  would  content  most  fellows/'  his  friends 
grumbled;  "  but  when  you  come  to  three,  and  not  his  own 
sisters  either,  why,  it  isn't  fair  on  other  folk."  And  to  Diek 
they  said,  "  Come,  it  is  no  use  being  so  awfully  close.  Of  course 
we  see  what's  up;  you  are  a  lucky  dog.  Which  is  it,  Mayne? 
— the  pretty  one  with  the  pink-and-white  complexion,  or  the 
quiet  one  in  gray,  or  the  one  with  the  mischievous  eyes?'* 

"  Faix,  they  are  all  darlints  and  jewels,  bless  their  purty 
faces!"  drawled  one  young  rogue,  in  his  favorite  brogue. 
"  Here's  the  top  of  the  morning  to  ye,  Mayne;  and  it  is 
mavourneen  with  the  brown  eyes  and  the  trick  of  the  smile  like 
the  sunshine's  glint  that  has  stolen  poor  Paddy's  heart." 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  you  fellows'."  returned  Dick,  in  a  disgusted 
voice.  "  What  is  the  good  of  your  pretending  to  be  Irish, 
Hamilton,  when  you  are  a  canny  Scotchman?" 

"  Hoots,  man,  mind  your  clavers!  You  need  not  grizzle  at 
a  creature  because  he  admires  a  wee  gairl  that  is  just  beyond 
the  lave — a  sonsie  wee  thing  with  a  glint  in  her  een  like  dia- 
monds." 

"  Hamilton,  will  you  leave  off  this  foolery?" 

"  Nae  doubt,  nae  doubt;  would  his  honor  pe  axing  if  he  pe 
wrang  in  the  head,  puir  thing?  Never  mind  that,  put  pe  giv- 
ing me  the  skene-dhu,  or  I  will  fight  with  proad-swords  like  a 
gentleman  for  the  bit  lassie;"  but  here  a  wary  movement  on 
Dick's  part  extinguished  the  torrent  of  Highland  eloquence, 
and  brought  the  canny  Scotchman  to  the  ground. 

Perfectly  oblivious  of  all  these  compliments,  the  Challoners 
enjoyed  themselves  with  the  zest  of  healthy,  happy  English 
girls.  They  were  simply  indefatigable;  poor  Mrs.  Mayne  suc- 
cumbed utterly  before  the  five  days  were  over. 

They  saw  the  precession  of  boats;  they  were  at  the  flower- 
show  at  Worcester;  Sunday  afternoon  found  them  in  the  Broad 
Walk;  and  the  next  night  they  were  dancing  at  the  University 
ball. 

They  raved  about  the  beauty  of  Magdalen  cloisters;  they 


18  NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GIRLS. 

looked  down  admiringly  into  the  deer-park;  Addison's  "Walk 
became  knowu  to  them,  and  the  gardens  of  St.  John's. 
Phillis  talked  learnedly  about  Cardinal  Wolsey  as  she  stood  in 
Christ  Chnrch  hall;  and  in  the  theater  "  the  youug  ladies  in 
pink  "  invoked  the  most  continuous  cheers. 

"  Can  they  mean  us?'*  whispered  Dulce,  rather  alarmed,  to 
their  faithful  escort  Dick.  "  I  don't  see  any  other  pink 
dresses!" 

And  Dick  said,  calmly: 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so.  Some  of  those  fellows  up  there  are 
such  a  trumpery  lot." 

So  Dulce  grew  more  reassured. 

But  the  greatest  fun  of  all  was  the  afternoon  spent  in  Dick's 
room,  when  all  his  special  friends  were  bidden  to  five-o'clock 
tea,  over  which  Nan,  in  her  white  gown,  presided  so  grace- 
fully. 

What  a  dear,  shabby  old  room  it  was,  with  old-fashioned 
window-seats,  where  one  could  look  down  into  the  quadrangle! 
Dick  was  an  Oriel  man,  and  thought  his  college  superior  even 
to  Magdalen. 

It  became  almost  too  hot  and  crowded  at  last,  so  many  were 
the  invitations  given;  but  then,  as  Dick  said  afterward,  "he 
was  such  a  soft-hearted  beggar  that  he  could  not  refuse  the 
fellows  that  pestered  him  for  invitations." 

Mrs.  Mayne,  looking  very  proud  and  happy,  sat  fanning 
herself  in  one  of  these  windows.  Phillis  and  Dulce  were  in 
the  other,  attended  by  that  rogue  Hamilton  and  half  a  dozen 
more.  Nan  was  the  center  of  another  clique,  who  hemmed 
her  and  the  tea-table  in  so  closely  that  Dick  had  to  wander 
disconsolately  round  the  outskirts;  there  was  no  getting  a  look 
from  Nan  that  afternoon. 

How  hot  it  was!  It  was  a  grand  coup  when  the  door  opened 
and  the  scout  made  his  appearance  carrying  a  tray  of  ices. 

"  It  is  well  to  be  Mayne!"  half  grumbled  young  Hamilton, 
as  Dulce  took  one  gratefully  from  his  hand.  "  He  is  treating 
us  like  a  prince,  instead  of  the  thin-bread-and-butter  enter- 
tainment he  led  us  to  expect.  Put  down  that  tea.  Miss  Chal- 
loner;  1  see  iced  claret-cup  and  strawberries  in  the  corner. 
There  is  nothing  like  being  an  only  child;  doting  parents  are 
extremely  useful  articles.  1  am  one  of  ten;  would  you  believe 
it?"  continued  the  garrulous  youth.  "  When  one  has  six 
brothers  older  than  one's  self,  I  will  leave  you  to  imagine  the 
consequences." 

"  How  nice!"  returned  Dulce,  innocently;  "  I  have  always 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GlfiLS.  Id 

80  longed  for  a  brother.     If  it  had  not  been  for  Dick,  we 
Bhould  have  had  no  one  to  do  things  for  us.'' 

"Oh,  indeed!  Mayne  is  a  sort  of  adopted  brotherl"  ob- 
served her  companion,  looking  at  her  rather  sharply. 

"  We  have  always  looked  upon  him  as  one.  We  do  just  as 
we  like  with  him — scold  and  tease  him,  and  send  him  on  our 
errands;"  which  intelligence  fairly  convinced  the  envious 
Hamilton  that  the  youngest  Miss  Challoner  was  not  his  friend's 
fancy. 

Dick  always  recalled  that  evening  with  a  sense  of  pride, 
flow  well  and  gracefully  Kan  had  fulfilled  her  duties!  how 
pretty  she  had  looked,  in  spite  of  her  flushed  cheeks!  He  had 
never  seen  a  girl  to  compare  with  her — not  he! 

They  were  so  full  of  these  delightful  reminiscences  that  they 
were  at  the  cottage  gate  before  they  knew  it;  and  then  Dick 
astonished  them  by  refusing  to  come  in.  lie  had  quite  for- 
gotten, he  said,  but  his  mother  bad  asked  him  to  come  home 
early,  as  she  was  not  feeling  just  the  thing. 

"  Quite  right;  you  must  do  as  she  wishes,"  returned  Nan, 
dismissing  him  far  too  readily,  as  he  thought;  but  she  said 
"  Good-night!"  with  so  kind  a  smile  after  that,  that  the  fool- 
ish young  fellow  felt  his  pulses  quicken. 

Dick  lingered  at  the  corner  until  the  cottage  door  was 
closed,  and  then  he  raced  down  the  Longmead  shrubbery  and 
set  the  house-bell  pealing. 

"  They  are  in  the  library,  I  suppose?"  he  asked  of  the  but- 
ler who  admitted  him;  and  on  receiving  an  answer  in  the 
affirmative,  he  dashed  unceremoniously  into  the  room,  while 
his  mother  held  up  her  finger  and  smiled  at  the  truant. 

"  You  naughty  boy,  to  be  so  late,  and  now  you  have  spoiled 
your  father's  nap!"  she  said,  pretending  to  scold  him. 

"  Tut!  tut!  what  nonsense  you  talk  sometimes!"  eaid  Mr. 
Mayne,  rather  crossly,  as  he  stood  on  the  hearth-rng  rubbing 
his  eyes.  "  I  was  not  asleep,  1  will  take  my  oath  of  that; 
only  I  wish  Dick  could  sometimes  enter  a  room  without  mak- 
ing people  jump;"  by  which  Dick  knew  that  his  father  was  in 
one  of  his  contrary  moods,  when  he  could  be  very  cross — very 
cross  indeed! 


CHAPTER  m. 

MR.  MAYNE  MAKES  HIMSELF  DISAGREEABLE. 

The  library  at  Longmead  was  a  very  pleasant  roriui,  and  it 
iras  the  custom  of  the  family  to  retire  ihither  on  occasions 


50  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

when  guests  were  not  forthcoming,  and  Mr.  Mayne  could  itt« 
"dulge  in  his  favorite  nap  without  fear  of  interruption. 

A  certain  simplicity,  not  to  say  homeliness,  of  manners  pre- 
vailed in  the  house.  It  was  understood  among  Ihcm  tliat  the 
dining-room  was  far  too  gorgeous  for  anytiiing  but  occasions 
of  ceremony.  Mrs.  Mayne,  indeed,  had  had  the  good  taste  to 
oover  the  satin  couches  with  pretty,  fresh-looking  cretonne, 
and  had  had  arranged  hanging  cupboards  of  old  china  until  it 
had  been  transformed  into  a  charming  apartment,  notwilh- 
sLanJing  which  the  library  was  declared  to  be  the  familv-rnom, 
where  the  usual  masculine  assortment  of  litter  could  be  re- 
garded with  indulgent  eyes,  and  where  papers  and  pamphlets 
lay  in  delightful  confusion. 

Longmead  was  not  a  pretentious  house;  it  was  a  moderate- 
sized  residence,  adapted  to  a  gentleman  of  moderate  means; 
but  in  summer  no  place  could  be  more  charming.  The  broad 
gravel  walk  before  the  house  had  a  background  of  roses;  hun- 
dreds of  roses  climbed  up  the  railings  or  twined  themselves 
about  the  steps;  a  tiny  miniature  lake,  garnished  with  wafer- 
lilies,  lay  in  the  center  of  the  lawn;  a  group  of  old  elm-trees 
were  beside  it;  behind  the  house  lay  another  lawn,  and  beyond 
were  meadows  where  a  few  sheep  were  quietly  grazing.  Mr. 
Mayne,  who  found  time  hang  a  little  heavily  on  his  hands, 
prided  himself  a  good  deal  on  his  poultry-yard  and  kitchen-gar- 
den. A  great  deal  of  his  spare  time  was  spent  among  his  fa- 
vorite Bantams  and  Dorkings,  and  in  superintending  his  opin- 
ionated old  gardener;  on  summer  mornings  he  would  be  out 
among  the  dews  in  his  old  coat  and  planter's  hat,  weeding 
among  the  gooseberry  bushes. 

"  It  is  the  early  bird  that  finds  the  worm,"  he  would  say, 
when  Dick  sauntered  into  the  breakfast-room  later  on;  for, 
in  common  with  the  youth  of  this  generation,  he  had  a  whole- 
some horror  of  early  rising,  which  he  averred  was  one  of  the 
barbarous  usages  of  the  dark  ages  in  which  his  elders  had  been 
bred. 

"  I  never  took  any  interest  in  worms,  sir,''  returned  Dick, 
helping  himself  to  a  tempting  rasher  that  had  just  been 
brought  in  hot  for  the  pampered  youth.  "  By  the  bye,  have 
you  seen  Darwin's  work  on  '  The  Formation  of  Vegetable 
Mold?'  He  declares  that  '  worms  have  played  a  more  impor- 
tant part  in  the  history  of  the  world  than  most  people  would 
at  first  suppose;'  they  were  our  earliest  plowmen." 

"Oh,  ah!  indeed,  very  interesting!"  observed  his  father, 
dryly;  "  but  all  the  ^ame,  I  beg  to  observe,  no  one  succeeded 
in  life  who  was  not  an  early  i  iser. " 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  Stt 

*'  A  sweeping  assertion,  and  one  I  might  be  tempted  to 
argue,  \t  it  were  not  for  taking  up  your  valuable  time,"  re- 
torted Diok,  lazily,  but  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  1  know 
my  consf.itulioti  better  than  to  trust  myself  out  before  the 
world  is  properly  aired  and  dried.  1  am  thinking  it  is  less 
a  case  of  worms  than  of  rheumatism  some  early  birds  will  be 
catching;"  to  which  Mr.  Mayne  merely  returned  an  ungra- 
cious "  Pshaw!"  and  marched  off,  leaving  his  sou  to  enjoy  his 
breakfast  in  peace. 

When  Dick  entered  the  library  on  the  evening  in  question, 
Mr.  Mayne's  querulous  observation  as  to  the  noisiness  of  his 
entrance  convinced  him  at  once  that  his  father  was  in  a  very 
bad  humor  indeed,  and  that  on  this  account  it  behooved  him 
to  be  exceedingly  cool. 

So  he  kissed  his  mother,  who  looked  at  him  a  little  anx- 
iously, and  then  sat  down  and  turned  out  her  work-basket,  as 
he  had  done  Nan's  two  or  three  hours  ago. 

'*  You  are  late,  after  all,  Dick,''  she  said,  with  a  little  re- 
proach in  her  voice.  It  was  hardly  a  safe  observation,  to  judge 
by  her  husband's  cloudy  countenance;  but  the  poor  thing 
sometimes  felt  her  evenings  a  trifle  dull  when  Dick  was  away. 
Mr.  Mayne  would  take  up  his  paper,  but  his  eyes  soon  closed 
over  it;  that  habit  of  seeking  for  the  early  worm  rather  dis- 
posed him  to  somnolent  evenings,  during  which  his  wife  knitted 
and  felt  herself  nodding  off  out  of  sheer  ennui  and  dullness. 
These  were  not  the  hours  she  had  planned  during  those  years 
of  waiting;  she  had  told  herself  that  Richard  would  read  to 
her  or  talk  to  her  as  she  sat  over  bar  work,  that  they  would 
have  so  much  to  say  to  each  other;  but  now,  as  she  regarded 
his  sleeping  countenance  evening  after  evening,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  matrimony  was  quite  what  she  expected, 
since  its  bliss  was  so  temperate  and  so  strongly  infused  with 
drowsiness. 

Dick  looked  up  innocently.     "  Am  I  late,  mother?" 

"  Oil,  of  course  not,"  returned  his  father,  with  a  sneer; 
"  it  is  not  quite  time  to  ring  for  Nicholson  to  bring  our  can- 
dles. Bessie,  I  think  I  should  like  some  hot  water  to-night;  1 
feel  a  little  chilly."  And  Bessie  rang  the  bell  obediently, 
and  without  any  surprise  in  her  manner.  Mr.  Mayne  often 
woke  up  chilly  from  his  long  nap. 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  a  '  drap  of  the  cratur?'  "  asked 
his  son,  with  alacrity.     "  Well,  I  don't  mind  joining  you,  and 
that's  the  truth,  for  we  have  been  dawdling  about,  and  I  am 
a  trifle  chilly  myself." 
^_"  You  know  I  object  to  spirits  for  young  men,'*  returned 


$2  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Mr.  Mayiie,  severely;  nevertheless,  he  pushed  the  whisky  to 
Dick  as  soou  as  he  had  mixed  his  own  glass,  and  his  sou  fol- 
lowed his  example. 

"  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  father,'"  he  observed,  as  he 
regarded  the  handsome  cut-glass  decanter  somewhat  critic- 
all  v;  "  but  there  are  exceptions  to  every  rule,  and  when  one 
l3  chilly—" 

"  I  wish  you  would  make  an  exception  and  stay  away  from 
the  cottage  sometimes,"  returned  Mr.  Mayne,  with  ill-sup- 
pressed impatience.  "  It  was  all  very  well  when  you  were  ali 
young  things  together,  but  it  is  high  time  matters  should  be 
different." 

Dick  executed  a  low  whistle  of  surprise  and  dismay.  He 
had  no  idea  his  father's  irritability  had  arisen  from  any  definite 
cause.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  be  so  late!  it  might  lead 
to  some  unpleasant  discussion.  Well,  after  all,  if  his  father 
chose  to  be  so  disagreeable  it  was  not  his  fault;  and  he  was  no 
longer  a  boy,  to  be  chidden,  or  made  to  do  this  or  that  against 
his  ow^n  will. 

Mr.  Mayne  was  sufficiently  shrewd  to  see  that  his  son  was 
somewhat  taken  aback  by  this  sudden  onslaught,  and  he  was 
not  slow  to  press  his  advantage.  He  had  wanted  to  give  Dick 
a  bit  of  his  mind  for  some  time,  and  after  all  there  is  no  time 
like  the  present. 

"  Yes,  it  v/as  all  very  well  when  you  were  a  lot  of  children 
together,"  he  continued.  "  Of  course,  it  is  hard  on  you, 
Dick,  having  no  brothers  and  sisters  to  keep  you  company; 
your  mother  and  I  were  always  sorry  about  that  for  your 
sake." 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  interrupted  Dick;  "  on  the  whole, 
I  am  best  pleased  as  it  is." 

"  But  it  would  have  been  better  for  you,"  returned  his  fa- 
ther, sharply;  "  we  should  not  have  had  all  this  fooling  and 
humbug  if  you  had  had  sisters  of  your  own." 

"  Fooling  and  humbug!"  repeated  Dick,  hotly;  "  I  con- 
fess, sir,  I  don't  quite  understand  to  what  you  are  referring." 
He  was  growing  very  angry,  but  bis  mother  flung  herself  be- 
tween the  combatants. 

"  Don't,  my  boy,  don't;  you  must  not  answer  your  father 
in  that  way.  Richard,  what  makes  you  so  hard  on  him  to- 
night? It  must  be  the  gout,  Dick;  we  had  better  send  for 
Doctor  Weatherby  in  the  morning,"  continued  the  anxious 
woman,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  for  your  dear  father  would 
never  be  so  cross  to  you  as  this  unless  he  were  going  to  be  ill." 

"  StufE  ani^  uonseuse,  Bessie!     Doctor  Weatherby  indeed!" 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  23 

but  his  voice  was  less  wrathful.  "  "What  is  it  but  fooling,  I 
should  like  to  know,  for  Diok  to  be  daundering  his  time  a^vay 
with  a  parcel  of  girls  as  he  does  with  these  ChallonersI" 

"  1  suppose  you  were  never  a  young  man  yourself,  sir." 

"  Oh,  yns,  1  was,  my  boy,"  and  the  corners  of  Mr.  Mayne's 
mouth  relaxed  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  keep  serious.  "  I  fell 
in  love  with  your  mother,  and  stuck  to  her  for  seven  or  eight 
years;  but  I  did  not  make  believe  that  I  was  brother  to  a  lot 
of  pretty  girls,  and  waste  all  my  time  dancing  attendance  on 
thcai  and  running  about  on  their  errands." 

"  You  ought  to  have  taken  a  lesson  out  of  my  book,'*  re- 
turned his  son,  readily. 

*'  No;  1  ought  to  have  done  no  such  thing,  sir!"  shouted 
back  Mr.  Mayne,  waxing  irate  again.  It  could  not  be  denied 
that  Dick  could  be  excessively  provoking  when  he  liked. 
"  Don't  1  tell  you  it  is  time  this  sort  of  thing  was  stopped? 
Why,  people  will  begin  to  talk,  and  say  you  are  making  up  to 
one  of  theoi;  it  is  not  right,  Dick;  it  is  not,  indeed,"  with  an 
attempted  pathos. 

"  1  don't  care  that  for  what  people  say,"  returned  the 
young  fellow,  snapping  his  finger.  "  Is  it  not  a  pity  you  are 
saying  all  this  to  me  just  when  I  am  going  away  and  am  not 
likely  to  see  any  of  them  for  the  next  six  months?  You  are 
very  hard  on  me  to-night,  father;  and  I  can't  think  what  it  is 
all  about." 

Mr.  Mayne  was  silent  a  moment,  revolving  his  son's  pathetic 
speech.  It  was  true  he  had  been  cross,  and  had  said  more 
than  he  had  meant  to  say.  He  had  not  wished  to  hinder 
Dick's  innocent  enjoyments;  but  if  he  were  unknowingly  pick- 
ing flowers  at  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  was  it  not  his  duty  as  a 
failier  to  warn  him? 

"  I  think  1  have  been  a  little  hard,  my  lad,"  he  said,  can- 
didly; "  but  there,  you  and  your  mother  know  my  bark  is 
w  irse  than  my  bite.  1  only  wanted  to  warn  you;  that's  all, 
Dick." 

"  Warn  me!  against  what,  sir?"  asked  the  young  man, 
quickly. 

"  Against  falling  in  love,  really,  with  one  of  the  Challoner 
girls!"  returned  Mr.  Mayne,  trying  to  evade  the  fire  of  Dick's 
eyes,  and  blustering  a  little  in  consequence.  "  Why,  they 
have  not  a  penny,  one  of  them;  and,  if  report  be  true,  Mrs. 
Challoner's  nioney  is  very  shakily  invested.  Paine  told  me  so 
the  other  day.  He  said  he  should  never  wonder  if  a  sudden 
crash  came  any  minute." 

"  Is  this  true,  Richard?" 


24  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Paiue  declares  it  is;  and  think  of  Dick  saddling  himself 
with  the  support  of  a  whole  family!" 

"  It  strikes  me  you  are  taking  things  very  much  for  grant- 
ed," returned  his  son,  trying  to  speak  coolly,  but  flushing  like 
a  girl  over  his  words.  "  I  think  you  might  wait,  father,  un- 
til I  proposed  bringing  you  home  a  daughter-in-law.*' 

"  1  am  only  warning  you,  Dick,  that  the  Challoner  connec- 
tion would  be  distasteful  to  me,"  replied  Mr.  Mayne,  feeling 
that  he  had  gone  a  little  too  far.  "  If  you  had  brothers  and 
sisters  it  would  not  matter  half  so  much;  but  it  would  be  too 
hard  if  my  only  son  were  to  cross  my  wishes." 

"  Should  )^ou  disinherit  me,  father?"  observed  Dick,  cheer- 
fully. He  had  recovered  his  coolness  and  pluck,  and  began  to 
feel  more  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  We  should  see  about  that;  but  I  hardly  think  it  would  be 
for  your  advantage  to  oppose  me  too  much,"  returned  his  fa- 
ther, with  an  ominous  pucker  of  his  eyebrows,  which  warned 
Dick  that  it  was  hardly  safe, to  chaff  the  old  boy  too  much  to- 
night. 

"I  think  I  will  go  to  bed,  Richard,"  put  in  poor  Mrs. 
Mayne.  She  had  wisely  forbore  to  mix  in  the  discussion,  fear- 
ing that  it  would  bring  upon  her  the  vials  of  her  husband's 
wrath.  Mr.  Mayne  was  as  choleric  as  a  Welshman,  and  had 
a  reserve  force  of  sharp  cynical  sayings  that  were  somewhat 
hard  to  bear.  He  was  disposed  to  turn  upon  her  on  such  oc- 
casions, and  to  accuse  her  of  spoiling  Dick  and  taking  his  part 
against  his  father;  between  the  two  Richards  she  sometimes 
had  a  very  bad  time  indeed. 

Dick  lighted  his  mother's  candle,  and  bade  her  good-night; 
but  all  the  same  she  knew  she  had  not  seen  the  last  of  him. 
A  few  minutes  afterward  there  was  a  hasty  tap  at  the  bedroom 
door,  and  Dick  thrust  in  his  head. 

"  Come  in,  my  dear;  I  have  been  expecting  you,"  she  said, 
with  a  pleased  smile.  He  always  came  to  her  when  he  was 
ruffled  or  put  out,  and  brought  her  ail  his  grievances;  surely 
this  was  the  very  meaning  and  essence  of  her  motheihood  — 
this  healing  and  comfort  that  lay  in  her  power  of  sympathy. 

When  he  was  a  little  fellow,  had  she  not  extracted  many  a 
thorn  and  bound  up  many  a  cut  finger?  and  now  he  was  a 
man,  would  she  be  less  helpful  to  him  when  he  wanted  a 
different  kind  of  comfort? 

"  Come  in,  my  son,"  she  said,  beckoning  him  to  the  low 
chair  beside  her,  into  which  Dick  threw  himself  with  a  petu- 
lant yawn. 


:4rOT    LIKE    OTHER    (ilRLS.  26 

'*  Mother,  what  made  the  pater  so  hard  on  me  to-night? 
He  cut  up  as  rough  as  though  I  had  committed  sonie  crime/' 

"  1  don't  thitik  he  is  quite  himself  to-uight,"  returned  Mrs. 
Mayue,  in  her  soft,  motherly  voice.  "  I  fancy  he  misses  you, 
Dick,  and  is  half  jealous  of  the  Challoners  for  monopolizing 
you.  You  are  all  we  have,  that's  where  it  is,"  she  finished, 
stroking  the  sandy  head  with  her  plump  hand;  but  Dick 
jerked  away  from  her  with  a  little  impatience. 

"  I  think  it  rather  hard  that  a  fellow  is  to  be  bullied  for  do- 
ing nothing  at  all,"  replied  Dick,  with  a  touch  of  sullenuess. 
"  When  the  pater  is  in  this  humor  it  is  no  use  saying  anything 
to  him;  but  you  may  as  well  tell  him,  mother,  that  I  meai  to 
choose  my  wife  for  myself." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  1  dare  not  tell  him  anything  of  the  kind," 
returned  Mrs.  Mayne,  in  an  alarmed  voice:  and  then,  as  she 
glanced  at  her  son,  her  terror  merged  into  amusement.  There 
was  spmething  so  absurdly  boyish  in  Dick's  appeaiance,  such 
a  ludicrous  contrast,  between  the  manliness  of  his  speech  and 
his  smooth  cheek;  the  little  fringe  of  hirsute  orniinient,  of 
which  Dick  was  so  proud,  was  hardly  vis  ible  in  the  dim  light; 
his  youthful  figure,  more  clumsy  than  graceful,  had  an  un- 
fledged air  about  it;  nevertheless,  the  boldness  of  his  words 
took  away  her  breath. 

"  Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  choice  in  such  a  mat- 
ter," continued  Dick,  loftily.  "You  may  as  well  tell  him, 
mother,  that  I  intend  to  select  my  own  wife." 

"My  dear,  1  dare  not  for  worlds—"  she  began;  and  then 
she  stopped,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Why  do 
you  say  this  to  me?  There  is  plenty  of  time,"  she  v,ent  on, 
hastily;  that  is  what  your  father  says,  and.  1  think  he  is  right. 
You  are  too  young  for  this  sort  of  thing  yet.  You  must  see 
the  world;  you  must  look  about  j^ou;  you  must  have  plenty  of 
choice,"  continued  the  anxious  mother.  "  I  shall  be  hard  to 
please,  Dick,  for  1  shall  think  no  one  good  enough  for  my 
boy;  that  is  the  worst  of  having  only  one,  and  he  the  best  sou 
that  ever  lived,"  finished  Mrs.  Mayne,  with  maternal  pride  in 
her  voice. 

Dick  took  this  effusion  very  coolly.  He  was  quite  used  to 
all  this  sort  of  worship;  he  did  not  think  badly  of  himself;  he 
was  not  particularly  humble-minded  or  given  to  troublesome 
introspection;  on  the  whole,  he  thought  himself  a  good  fellow, 
and  was  not  at  all  surprised  that  people  appreciated  him. 

"There  are  such  a  lot  of  cads  in  the  world,  oneisaln-ays 

flad  to  fall  in  with  a  ditlerent  sort,"  he  would  say  to  himself. 
[e  was  quite  of  his  mother's  opinion,  that  an  fionest,  God- 


)26  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

fearing  young  fellow,  who  spoke  the  truth  and  shamed  the 
devil,  who  had  no  special  vices  but  a  dislike  for  early  rising, 
who  had  tolerable  brains,  and  more  than  his  share  of  muscle, 
who  was  in  the  Oxford  eleven,  and  who  had  earned  his  blue 
ribbon— that  such  a' one  might  be  considered  to  set  an  ex- 
ample to  his  geneiation. 

When  his  mother  told  him  she  would  be  hard  to  please, 
Dick  looked  a  little  wicked,  and  thought  of  Nan;  but  the 
name  was  not  mentioned  between  them.  Nevertheless,  Mrs, 
Mayne  felt  with  unerring  maternal  instinct  that,  in  spite  of 
his  youth,  Dick's  choice  was  made,  and  sighed  to  herself  at 
the  thought  of  the  evil  days  that  were  to  come. 

Poor  woman,  she  was  to  have  little  peace  that  night!  Hard- 
ly had  Dick  finished  his  grumble  and  sauntered  away,  before 
her  husband's  step  was  heard  in  his  dressing-room. 

"  Bessie,"  he  called  out  to  her,  "  why  do  you  allow  that  boy 
to  keep  you  up  so  late  at  night?  Do  you  know  that  it  is 
eleven,  and  you  are  still  fully  dressed?" 

"Is  itsolate,  Eiohard?'' 

"  Yes,  of  course/'  he  snapped;  "  but  that  is  the  care  you 
take  of  your  health;  and  the  way  you  cosset  and  spoil  that  boy 
is  dreadful." 

"  I  don't  think  Dick  is  easily  spoiled,*'  plucking  up  a  little 
spirit  to  answer  him. 

"  That  shows  how  little  you  understand  boys,"  returned  her 
husband.  Evidently  the  whisky,  though  it  was  the  best  Glen- 
livat,  had  failed  to  mollify  him.  It  might  be  dangerous  to  go 
too  far  with  Dick,  for  he  had  a  way  of  turning  around  and 
defending  himself  that  somewhat  embarrassed  Mr.  Mayne,  but 
with  his  wife  there  would  be  no  such  danger.  He  would 
dominate  her  by  his  sharp  speeches,  and  reduce  her  to  abject 
submission  in  a  moment,  for  Bessie  was  the  meekest  of  wives. 
"  Take  care  how  you  side  with  him,"  he  continued,  in  a 
threatening  voice.  "  He  thinks  that  I  am  not  serious  in  what 
1  said  just  now,  and  is  for  carrying  it  off  with  a  high  hand; 
but  I  tell  you,  and  you  had  better  tell  him,  that  1  was  never 
more  in  earnest  in  my  life.  1  won't  have  one  of  those  Chal- 
loner  girls  for  a  daughter-in-law!" 

"  Oh,  Kichard!  and  Nan  is  such  a  sweet  girl!"  returned  his 
wife,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  was  awfully  jealous  of  Nan, 
at  times  she  almost  dreaded  her;  but  for  her  boy's  sake  she 
would  have  taken  her  now  to  her  heart  and  defied  even  her 
formidable  husband.  "  She  is  such  a  pretty  creature,  too;  no 
one  can  help  loving  her." 

Pshaw!"  returned  her  husband;  "  pretty  creature  indeed! 


it 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS.  27 

that  is  just  your  soft-hearted  nonsense.  Phillis  is  ten  times 
prettier,  and  has  iieaps  more  sense.  Why  couldn't  Dick  have 
taken  a  fancy  to  her?" 

"  Because  I  am  afraid  he  cares  for  the  other  one/'  returned 
Mrs.  Mayne,  sadly.  She  had  no  wish  to  deceive  her  husband, 
and  she  knew  that  the  golden  apple  had  rolled  to  Nan's  feet. 

"  Stuff  and  rubbish!"  he  responded,  wrathfully.  "  What 
is  a  boy  of  his  age  to  know  about  such  things?  Tell  him  from 
niB  to  put  this  nonsense  out  of  his  head  for  the  next  year  or 
two;  there  is  plenty  of  time  to  look  out  for  a  wife  after  that. 
But  I  won't  have  him  making  up  his  mind  until  he  has  left 
Oxford."  And  Mrs.  Mayne,  knowing  that  her  husband  had 
spoken  his  last  word,  thankfully  withdrew,  feeling  that  in  her 
heart  she  secretly  agreed  with  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

dick's  fete. 

As  Mr.  Mayne's  wrath  soon  evaporated,  and  Dick  was  a 
sweet-tempered  fellow  and  bore  no  malice,  this  slight  alterca- 
tion produced  no  lasting  effect,  except  that  Dick,  for  the  next 
few  clays,  hurried  home  to  his  dinner,  talked  a  good  deal  about 
Switzerland,  and  never  mentioned  a  Challoner  in  his  father's 
hearing. 

"  We  must  keep  him  in  a  good  temper  for  the  25th,"  he 
said  to  his  mother,  with  a  touch  of  the  Mayne  shrewdness. 

That  day  was  rapidly  approaching,  and  all  sorts  of  festive 
preparations  were  going  on  at  Longmead.  Dick  himself 
gravely  superintended  the  rolling  of  the  tennis-ground  in  the 
large  meadow,  and  daubed  himself  plentifully  with  lime  in 
marking  out  ihe  courts,  while  Mr.  Mayne  stood  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  shooting-coat  watching  him.  The  two 
were  a  great  deal  together  just  then.  Dick  rather  stuck  to 
his  father  during  one  or  two  mornings;  the  wily  young  fellow 
knew  that  Nan  was  closeted  with  his  mother,  helping  her  with 
all  sorts  of  feminine  arrangements,  and  he  was  determined  to 
keep  them  apart.  Nan  wondered  a  great  deal  why  Dick  did 
not  come  to  interrupt  or  tease  them  as  usual,  and  grew  a  lit- 
tle absent  over  Mrs.  Mayne's  rambling  explanations.  When 
the  gong  sounded  no  one  asked  her  to  stay  to  luncheon.  Mrs. 
Mayne  saw  her  put  on  her  hat  without  uttering  a  single  pro- 
test:. 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  help  me,  dear,"  she  said,  taking 
the  girl  into  her  embrace.  "  You  are  quite  sure  people  won't 
expect  a  sit-down  supper?" 


28  ISrOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"Oh,  no;  the  buffet  system  is  best/' returned  Nan,  de- 
cidedly. "  Half  the  people  will  not  stay,  and  you  need  not 
make  a  fuss  about  the  rest.  It  is  an  afternoon  party,  you 
must  remember  that;  only  people  who  are  very  intimate  will 
remain  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  Tell  "Nicholson  to  have 
plenty  of  ices  going;  people  care  most  for  that  sort  of  refresh- 
ment. " 

"  Yes,  dear;  I  will  be  sure  to  remember,'*  returned  her 
friend,  meekly. 

She  was  very  grateful  to  Nan  for  these  hints,  and  was  quice 
willing  to  follow  her  guidance  in  all  such  matters;  but  whea 
Nan  proposed  once  sending  for  Dick  to  ask  his  opinion  on 
some  knotty  point  that  baflSed  their  women's  wits,  Mrs. 
Mayne  demurred. 

"  It  is  a  pity  to  disturb  him;  he  is  with  his  father;  and  we 
can  settle  these  things  by  ourselves,"  she  replied,  not  ventur- 
ing to  mar  the  present  tranquillity  by  sending  such  a  message 
to  Dick.  Mr.  Mayne  would  have  accompanied  his  sou,  and 
the  consultation  would  hardly  have  ended  peaceably.  "  Men 
have  their  hobbies.  We  had  better  settle  all  this  together, 
you  and  1,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

Nan  merely  nodded,  and  cut  the  Gordian  knot  through 
somewhat  ruthlessly;  but  on  that  occasion  she  put  on  her  hat 
before  the  gong  sounded. 

"  You  must  be  very  busy,  for  one  never  has  a  glimpse  of 
you  in  the  morning,"  she  could  not  help  saying  to  Dick,  as 
he  came  in  that  afternoon  to  escort  them  to  Fitzroy  Lodge. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  am  tolerably  busy,"  he  drawled.  "1  am 
never  free  to  do  things  in  the  afternoons  " — a  fact  that  Nan 
felt  was  unanswerable. 

When  Nan  and  her  sisters  woke  on  the  morning  of  the 
memorable  day,  the  bright  sunshine  of  a  cloudless  June  day 
set  all  their  fears  at  rest.  If  the  sun  smiled  on  Dick's  fete, 
all  would  be  well.  If  Nan's  devotions  were  longer  than  usual 
that  morning,  no  one  was  the  wiser;  if  she  added  a  little 
clause,  calling  down  a  blessing  on  a  certain  head,  no  one  would 
be  the  poorer  for  such  pure  prayers;  indeed,  it  were  well  if 
many  such  were  uttered  for  the  young  men  who  go  forth 
morning  after. morning  into  the  temptations  of  life. 

Such  prayers  might  stretch  like  an  invisible  shield  before 
the  countless  foes  that  environ  such  a  one;  fiery  darts  may  be 
caught  upon  it;  a  deadly  thrust  may  be  turned  away.  What 
if  the  blessing  would  never  reach  the  ear  of  the  loved  one,  who 
goes  out  unconscious  of  sympathy?    His  guardian  angel  has 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  29 

heard  it,  and  perchance  it  has  reached  the  very  gate  of 
hfaven. 

Nan  came  dow^n,  smiling  and  radiant,  to  find  Dick  waiting 
for  her  in  the  veranda  and  chattering  to  Phillis  and  Dulce. 

"  Why,  Dick!"  she  cried,  blushing  with  surprise  and  pleas- 
ure, *'  to  think  of  your  being  here  on  your  birthday  morn- 

ing!'' 

"  I  only  came  to  thank  you  and  the  girls  for  your  lovely 
presents,"  returned  Dick,  becoming  rather  incoherent  and  red 
at  the  sight  of  Nan's  blush.  "  It  was  so  awfully  good  of  you 
all  to  work  all  those  things  for  me;"  for  Nan  had  taken  secret 
measurements  in  Dick's  room,  and  had  embroidered  a  most 
exquisite  mantel-piece  valance,  and  Phillis  and  Dulce  had 
worked  the  corners  of  a  green  cloth  with  wonderful  daffodils 
and  bulrushes  to  cover  Dick's  shabby  table;  and  Dick's  soul 
had  been  filled  with  ravishment  at  the  sight  of  these  gifts. 

Nan  would  not  let  him  go  on,  but  all  the  same  his  happy 
face  delighted  her. 

"No;  don't  thank  us,  we  liked  doing  it,"  she  returned, 
rather  coolly.  "  You  know  we  owed  you  something  after  all 
your  splendid  hospitality,  and  work  is^  never  any  trouble  to 
us." 

"But  1  never  saw  anything  I  liked  better,"  blurted  out 
Dick.  "All  the  fellows  will  be  jealous  of  me.  1  am  sure  I 
don't  know  what  Hamilton  will  say.  It  was  awfully  good  of 
you.  Nan,  and  so  it  was  of  the  others;  and  if  I  don't  make  it 
up  to  you  somehow,  my  name  is  not  Dick;"  and  he  smiled 
round  at  them  as  he  spoke.  "  Fancy  putting  in  all  those 
stitches  for  mel"  he  thought  to  himself. 

"  We  are  so  glad  you  are  pleased,"  returned  Nan,  with  one 
of  her  sweet,  straightforward  looks;  "  that  is  what  we  wanted 
to  give  you — a  little  surprise  on  your  birthday.  Now  you 
must  telf  us  about  your  other  presents."  And  Dick,  nothing 
loath,  launched  into  eloquent  descriptions  of  the  siher-fitted 
dressing-case  from  his  mother,  and  the  gun  and  thorough-bred 
colly  that  had  been  his  father's  gifts. 

"He  is  such  a  fine  fellow;  I  must  show  him  to  you  this 
afternoon,"  went  on  Dick,  eagerly.  "  His  name  is  Vigo,  and 
he  has  such  a  superb  head.  Was  it  not  good  of  the  pater?  He 
knew  I  had  a  fancy  for  a  colly,  and  he  has  been  in  treat v  for 
one  ever  so  long.  Is  he  not  a  dear  old  boy?"  cried  Dick, 
r>»-Dturonsly.  But  he  did  not  tell  his  friends  of  the  crisp  bun- 
dle of  bank-notes  with  whith  Mr.  Mayne  had  enriched  his  son; 
9^y,   as  Dick  fingered   them  lovingly,  he   wondered   what 


30  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

pretty  foreign  tiling  he  could  buy  for  Nan,  and  whether  her 
mother  would  allow  her  to  accept  it. 

After  this  Nan  dismissed  him  somewhat  peremptorily;  he 
must  go  back  to  his  breakfast,  and  allow  tliem  to  do  the 
same. 

"  Mind  you  come  early/'  were  Dick's  last  words,  as  he 
waved  his  straw  hat  to  them.  How  often  the  memory  of  that 
morning  recurred  to  him  as  he  stood  solitary  and  thoughtful, 
contemplating  some  grand  stretch  of  Alpine  scenery! 

The  snow-peaks  and  blue  glaciers  melted  away  before  his 
eyes;  iu  their  place  rose  unbidden  a  f)icture  framed  in  green 
trellis-work,  over  which  roses  were  climbing. 

Fresh  girlish  faces  smiled  back  at  him;  the  brightest  and 
kindest  of  glances  met  his.  "  Good-bye  Dick;  a  thousand 
good  wishes  from  us  all."  A  slim  white  hand  had  gathered 
a  rosebud  for  him;  how  proudly  he  had  worn  it  all  that  day! 
Stop,  he  had  it  still;  it  lay  all  crushed  and  withered  in  his 
pocket-book.  He  had  written  the  date  under  it;  one  day  he 
meant  to  show  it  to  her.  Oh,  foolish  days  of  youth,  so  prodi- 
gal of  minor  memories  and  small  deeds  of  gifts,  when  a  with- 
ered flower  can  hold  the  rarest  scent,  and  in  a  crumpled  rose 
leaf  there  is  a  whole  volume  of  ecstatic  meaning!  Oh,  golden 
days  of  youth,  never  to  be  surpassed! 

Never  in  the  memory  of  Oldfield  had  there  been  a  more  de- 
licious day. 

'1  he  sky  was  cloudless,  long  purple  shadows  lay  under  the 
elm-trees;  a  concert  of  bird-music  sounded  from  the  shrub- 
bery; in  the  green  meadows  flags  were  waving,  tent  draperies 
fluttering;  the  house  doors  stood  open,  showing  a  flower- 
decked  hall  and  vista  of  cool  shadowy  rooms. 

Dick,  looking  bright  and  trim,  wandered  restlessly  over  the 
place,  and  Mr.  Mayne  fidgeted  after  him;  while  Mrs.  Mayne 
tat  fanning  herself  under  the  elm-trees  and  hoping  the  band 
would  not  be  late. 

No,  there  it  was  turning  in  now  at  the  stable  entrance,  and 
playing  "  The  girl  I  left  behind  me;"  and  there  at  the  same 
moment  was  Nan  coming  up  the  lawn  in  her  white  gown, 
closely  followed  by  her  mother  aud  sisters. 

"  Are  we  the  first?"  she  asked,  as  Dick  darted  across  the 
grass  to  meet  her.  "  That  is  nice;  we  shall  see  all  the  people 
arrive.  How  inspiriting  that  music  is,  and  how  beautiful 
everything  looks!" 

"It  is  awfully  jolly  of  you  to  be  the  first,"  whispered  Dick; 
"  and  how  nice  you  look,  Nan!  You  always  do,  you  know, 
bat  to-day  you  are  first-rate.     Is  this  a  new  gown?"  casting 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  31 

an  approving  look  over  Nau's  costume,  which  was  certainly 
very  fresh  and  pretty. 

"  Ob,  yes;  we  have  all  new  dresses  in  your  honor,  and  we 
made  them  ourselves,"  returned  Nan,  carelessly.  "  Mother 
has  got  her  old  silk,  but  for  her  it  does  not  so  much  matter; 
at  least  tbat  is  what  she  says." 

*'  And  she  is  quite  right.  She  is  always  real  splendid,  as 
the  Yankees  say,  whatever  she  wears,"  returned  Dick,  wish- 
ing secretly  that  his  mother  in  her  new  satin  dress  looked  half 
so  well  as  Mrs.  Cballoner  in  her  old  one.  But  it  was  no  use. 
Mrs.  Mayne  never  set  o2  her  handsome  dresses;  with  her 
flushed,  good-natured  face  and  homely  ways,  she  showed  to 
marked  disadvantage  beside  Mrs.  Challoner's  faded  beauty. 
Mrs.  Challoner's  gown  might  be  antique,  but  nothing  could 
surpass  the  quiet  grace  of  her  carriage,  or  the  low  pleasant 
modulations  of  her  voice.  Her  figure  was  almost  as  slim  as 
her  daughters',  and  she  could  easily  have  passed  for  their  elder 
sister. 

Lady  Fitzroy,  who  was  a  Burgoyne  by  birth — and  every  one 
knows  that  for  haughtiness  and  a  certain  exclusive  intoleration 
none  could  match  the  Burgoynes— always  distinguished  Mrs. 
Challoner  by  the  marked  attention  she  paid  her. 

*' A  very  lady-like  woman,  Percival.  Certainly  the  most 
lady-like  person  in  the  neighborhood,"  she  would  say  to  her 
husband,  who  was  not  quite  so  exclusive,  and  always  made 
himself  pleasant  to  his  neighbors;  and  she  would  ask  very  gra- 
ciouslv  after  her  brother-in-law.  Sir  Francis  Challoner.  "  He 
is  still  in  India,  I  suppose?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  he  is  still  in  India,"  Mrs.  Challoner  would  re- 
ply, rather  curtly.  She  had  not  the  faintest  interest  in  her 
husband's  brother,  whom  she  had  never  seen  more  than  twice 
in  her  life,  and  who  was  understood  to  be  small  credit  to  his 
family.  The  aforesaid  Sir  Francis  Challoner  had  been  the 
poorest  of  English  baronets.  His  property  had  dwindled 
down  until  it  consisted  simply  of  a  half-ruined  residence  in  the 
north  of  England. 

In  his  young  days  Sir  Francis  had  been  a  prodigal,  and,  like 
the  prodigal  in  the  parable,  he  had  betaken  himself  into  far 
countries,  not  to  waste  his  substance,  for  he  had  none,  but  if 
possible  to  glean  some  of  the  Eastern  riches. 

Whether  he  had  been  successful  or  not,  Mrs.  Challoner 
hardly  knew.  That  he  had  married  and  settled  in  Calcutta — 
that  he  had  a  son  named  Harry  who  had  once  written  to  her 
in  round-hand  and  subscribed  himself  as  her  affectionate 
nephew,  Henry  Ford  Challoner — this  she  knew;   but  what 


3S  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLi. 

manner  of  person  Lady  Challoner  might  be,  or  what  sort  of 
home  her  brother-in-law  had  made  for  himself,  those  points 
were  enveloped  in  mystery. 

"  I  suppose  she  is  so  civ^il  to  me  because  of  your  uncle  Fran- 
cis/' siie  used  to  say  to  her  girls,  which  was  attributing  to 
Lady  Fitzroy  a  degree  of  snobbishness  that  was  quite  unde- 
served. Lady  Fitzroy  really  liked  Mrs.  Challoner,  and  found 
intercourse  with  her  very  pleasant  and  refreshing.  When  one 
is  perfectly  well-bred  there  is  a  subtile  charm  in  harmony  of 
voice  and  manner.  Mrs.  Challoner  might  have  dressed  in  rags 
if  she  liked,  and  the  young  countess  would  still  have  aired  her 
choicest  smiles  fnr  her. 

It  was  lucky  Nan  had  those  few  words  from  Dick,  for  they 
fell  apart  after  this,  and  were  separated  the  greater  portion  of 
the  afternoon. 

Carriages  began  to  drive  in  at  the  gates;  groups  of  well- 
dressed  people  thronged  the  lawn,  and  were  drafted  ofE  to  the 
field  where  the  band  was  playing. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  had  their  work  cut  out  for  them;  they 
knetv  everybody,  and  they  were  free  of  the  house.  It  was 
they  who  helped  Dick  arrange  the  tennis-matches,  who  pointed 
out  to  the  young  men  of  the  party  which  was  the  tea-tent, 
and  where  the  ices  and  claret-cup  were  to  be  found.  They 
marshaled  the  elder  ladies  into  pleasant  nooks,  where  they 
could  be  sheltered  from  the  sun  and  see  all  that  was  going  on. 

*'  No,  thank  you;  I  shall  not  play  tennis  this  afternoon; 
there  are  too  many  of  us,  and  I  am  so  busy,"  Nan  said,  dis- 
missing one  after  another  who  came  up  to  her.  "  If  you  want 
a  partner,  there  is  Carrie  Paine,  who  is  dying  for  a  game." 

Dick,  who  was  passing  with  Lady  Fitzroy  on  his  arm,  whom 
he  was  hurrying  somewhat  unceremoniously  across  the  field, 
threw  her  a  grateful  glance  as  he  went  by. 

"  What  a  sweet-looking  girl  that  isl"  said  Lady  Fitzroy, 
graciously,  as  she  panted  a  little  over  her  exertion. 

"Who?  Nan?  Yes;  isn't  she  a  brick?  and  the  others 
too?"  for  Phillis  and  Dulce  were  just  as  self-denying  in  their 
labors.  As  Mr.  Mayne  said  afterward,  "They  were  just 
everywhere,  those  Challoners,  like  a  hive  of  swarming  bees;" 
which,  as  it  was  said  in  a  grumbling  tone,  was  ungrateful,  to 
say  the  least  of  it. 

Dick  worked  like  a  horse  too;  he  looked  all  the  afternoon 
as  though  he  had  a  tough  job  in  hand  that  required  the  ut- 
most gravity  and  dispatch.  He  was  forever  hurrying  elderly 
ladies  across  the  field  toward  the  refreshment-tent,  where  he 
deposited  them,  panting  and  heated,  in  all  sorts  of  corners. 


mr    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  33 

*'  Are  you  quite  comfortable?  May  1  leave  you  novv?  or 
shall  I  wait  and  take  you  back  again?''  asked  Dick,  who  was 
eager  for  a  fresh  convoy. 

•"  No,  no;  I  would  rather  stay  here  a  little/'  returned  Mrs. 
Paine,  who  was  not  desirous  of  another  promenade  with  the 
hero  of  the  day.  "  Go  and  fetch  some  one  else,  Dick;  I  am 
very  well  off  where  I  am,"  exchanging  an  amused  glance  with 
one  of  her  friends,  as  Dick,  hot  and  breathless,  started  off  on 
another  voyage  of  discovery. 

Dick's  behavior  had  been  simply  perfect  all  the  afternoon  in 
his  father's  eyes;  but  later  on,  when  the  band  struck  up  a  set 
of  quadrilles,  he  committed  his  first  solecism  in  manners;  in- 
stead of  asking  Lady  Fitzroy  to  dance  with  him,  he  hurried 
after  Nan. 

"  This  is  our  dance;  come  along,"  he  said,  taking  her  un- 
willing hand;  but  she  held  back  a  moment. 

"  Are  you  sure?  Is  there  not  some  one  else  you  ought  to 
choose?  Lady  Fitzroy,  for  example?"  questioned  Nan,  with 
admirable  forethought. 

"  Bother  Lady  Fitzroy!"  exclaimed  Dick,  ujider  his  breath; 
he  had  had  quite  enough  of  that  lady.  '*  Why  are  you  hold- 
ing back,  Nan,  in  this  fashion?"  a  cloud  coming  over  his  face. 
"  Haven't  you  promised  weeks  ago  to  give  me  the  first  dance?^' 
And  Nan,  seeing  the  cloud  on  his  face,  yielded  without  an- 
other word.  Dick  always  managed  to  have  his  own  way  some- 
how. 

"  Dick,  Dick  I"  cried  his  father,  in  a  voice  of  agony,  as 
they  passed  him. 

"  AH  in  good  time;  coming  presently,"  returned  the  scape- 
grace, cheerfully.  "  Novv,  Nan,  this  is  our  place.  We  will 
have  Hamilton  and  Dulce  for  our  vis-a-vis.  What  a  jolly 
day!  and  isn't  this  first-rate?"  exclaimed  Dick,  rubbing  his 
hands,  and  feeling  as  though  he  were  only  just  beginning  to 
enjoy  himself. 

Nan  was  not  quite  so  easy  in  her  mind. 

"  Your  father  does  not  look  very  pleased.  I  am  afraid, 
after  all,  you  ought  to  have  asked  Lady  Fitzroy,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  but  Dick  turned  a  deaf  ear.  He  showed  her  the 
rose  in  his  button-hole;  and  when  Nan  told  him  it  was  with- 
ered, and  wanted  him  to, take  it  out,  he  gave  her  a  reproachful 
look  that  made  her  blush. 

They  were  very  happy  after  this;  and,  when  the  dance  was 
over,  Dick  gave  her  his  arm  and  carried  her  off  to  see  Vigo, 
who  was  howling  a  dee^i,  mournful  bass  at  the  back  of  the 
gardener's  cottage. 


34  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIULS. 

Nau  made  friends  with  him,  and  stroked  his  hlack  curly 
head,  aud  looked  lovingly  into  his  deep,  melancholy  eyes;  and 
then,  as  her  flowers  were  fading,  they  strolled  off  into  the  con- 
servatory, where  Dick  gathered  her  a  fresh  bouquet  and  thea 
sat  down  and  watched  her  arrange  it. 

"  What  clever  fingers  you  have  got!"  he  said,  looking  at 
them  admiringl}^  as  Nan.  sorted  the  flowers  in  her  lap;  aud 
at  his  unlucky  moment  they  were  discovered  by  Mr.  Mayne, 
who  was  bringing  Lady  Fitzroy  to  see  a  favorite  orchid. 

He  shot  an  angry,  suspicious  glance  at  his  son. 

"  Dick,  your  mother  is  asking  for  you,"  he  said,  rather 
abruptly;  but  Dick  growled  something  in  an  under-toue,  and 
did  not  move. 

Nan  gave  him  a  frightened  nudge.  Why  was  he  so  im- 
prudent? 

"  I  can  not  move,  because  of  my  flowers;  do  go,  Dick.  You 
must  indeed,  if  your  mother  wants  you;"  and  she  looked  at 
him  in  such  a  pleading  way  that  Dick  dared  not  refuse.  It 
was  just  like  his  father  to  come  and  disturb  his  first  happy 
moments  and  to  order  him  oflf  to  go  aud  do  something  dis- 
agreeable. He  had  almost  a  mind  to  brave  it  out,  aud  remain 
in  spite  of  him;  but  there  was  Nan  looking  at  him  in  a  fright- 
ened, imploring  wa}'. 

"  Oh,  do  go,  Dick,"  giving  him  a  little  impatient  push  in 
her  agitation;  "  if  your  mother  wants  you,  you  must  not  keep 
her  waiting. "  But  Nan  in  her  heart  knew,  as  Dick  did  in 
his,  that  the  message  was  only  a  subterfuge  to  separate  them. 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  I   AM    QUITE   SURE   OF   HIM." 

Nan  would  willingly  have  effected  her  escape  too,  but  she 
was  detained  by  the  flowers  that  Dick  had  tossed  so  lightly 
into  her  lap.  She  was  rather  dismayed  at  her  position,  and 
her  fingers  trembled  a  little  over  their  work.  There  was  a 
breath — a  sudden  entering  current— of  antagonism  and  preju- 
dice that  daunted  her.  Lady  Fitzroy  cast  an  admiring  look 
at  the  girl  as  she  sac  there  with  glowing  cheeks  and  downcast 
lids. 

"  How  pretty  she  is!"  she  said,  in  alow  voice,  as  Mr.  Mayne 
pointed  out  his  favorite  orchid.  "  She  is  like  her  mother; 
there  is  just  the  same  quiet  style,  only  I  suspect  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  was  even  better  lookijig  in  her  time." 

"  Humph!  yes,  1  suppose  so,"  returned  her  host,  in  a  dis- 
satisfied tone.     He  had  not  brought  Lady  Fitzroy  there  to  talk 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  35 

of  the  Challoner?,  but  to  admire  his  orchids.  Then  he  shot 
another  glance  at  l!i'dn  between  his  hulf-closed  eyes,  and  a  lit- 
tle spice  of  malice  flavored  his  jicxt  words. 

"  Shall  we  sit  here  a  moment?  Let  me  see;  yon  were  ask- 
ing me.  Lady  Fitzroy,  about  Dick's  prospects.  I  was  talking 
to  his  mother  about  them  the  other  day.  I  said  to  her  then 
Dick  must  settle  in  life  well;  he  must  marry  money.*' 

"Indeed?"  replied  Lady  Fitzro}^  somewhat  absently;  she 
even  indulged  in  a  slight  yawn  behind  her  fan.  She  liked 
Dick  well  enough,  as  every  one  else  did,  but  she  was  not  partial 
to  his  father. 

llovv  tiresome  it  was  of  Fitzroy  to  insist  so  much  on  their 
neighborly  duties! 

Mr,  Mayne  was  not  "one  of  them,"  as  she  would  have 
phrased  it;  he  did  not  speak  their  language  or  lead  their  life; 
their  manners  and  customs,  their  little  tricks  and  turns  of 
thought,  were  hieroglyphics  to  him, 

A  man  who  had  never  had  a  grandfather— at  least  a  grand- 
father worth  knowing — whose  father's  hands  had  dabbled  in 
trade — actually  trade — such  a  one  might  be  a  very  worthy 
man,_  an  excellent  citizen,  an  exemplary  husband  and  father, 
but  it  behooved  a  woman  in  her  position  not  to  descend  too 
freely  to  his  level. 

"  Percival  is  such  a  sad  Eadical,"  she  would  say  to  herself; 
"  he  does  not  make  sufficient  distinction  between  people.  1 
should  wish  to  be  neighborly,  but  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  be 
familiar  with  these  Maynes;"  which  was  perhaps  the  reason 
why  Lady  Fitzroy  was  not  as  popular  at  Lougmead  and  in 
other  places  as  her  good-natured  husband, 

"Oh,  indeed!"  she  said,  with  difficulty  repressing  another 
slight  yawn  behind  her  fan,  but  speaking  in  a  fatigued  voice; 
but  Mr.  Mayne  was  too  intent  on  his  purpose  to  notice  it. 

"  If  Dick  had  brothers  and  sisters  it  would  not  matter  bo 
much;  but  when  one  has  only  a  single  hope— eh.  Lady  Fitz- 
roy?—things  must  be  a  little  different  then." 

"He  will  have  plenty  of  choice,"  she  returned,  with  an 
effort  at  graciousness.  "  Oldfield  is  rich  in  pretty  girls  " — 
and  she  cast  another  approving  glance  at  poor  "Kan;  but  Mr. 
Mayne  interrupted  her  almost  rudely. 

"Ah,  as  to  that,"  he  returned,  with  a  sneer,  "  we  want  no 
such  nonsense  for  Dick,  Here  are  the  facts  of  the  case.  Here 
is  an  honest,  good-tempered  young  fellow,  but  with  no  partic- 
ular push  in  him;  he  has  money,  you  say — yes,  but  not  enough 
to  give  him  the  standing  I  want  him  to'have.  I  am  ambitious 
for  Dick.     I  want  him  to  settle,  in  life  well.     Why,  he  might 


36  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

be  called  to  the  bar;  he  might  enter  Parliament;  there  is  no 
limit  to  a  man's  career  nowadays;  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  him, 
but  he  must  meet  me  half-way.'^ 

"  You  mean,"  observed  Lady  Fitzroy,  with  a  little  per- 
plexity in  her  tone,  "  that  he  must  look  out  for  an  heiress." 
She  was  not  in  the  secret,  aud  she  could  not  understand  why 
her  host  was  treating  her  to  this  outburst  of  confidence.  "  It 
was  so  disagreeaable  to  be  mixed  up  with  this  sort  of  thing," 
as  she  told  her  husband  afterward.  "  I  never  knew  him  quite 
so  odious  before;  and  there  was  that  pretty  Miss  Challoiier 
sitting  near  us,  and  he  never  let  me  address  a  word  to  her." 

JSIan  began  to  feel  she  had  had  enough  of  it.  She  started 
up  hastily  as  Lady  Fitzroy  said  the  last  words,  but  the  en- 
trance of  seme  more  young  people  compelled  her  to  stand  in- 
side a  moment,  and  she  heard  Mr.  Mayne's  answer  distinctly: 
"  Well,  not  an  heiress  exactly;  but  the  girl  I  have  in  view  for 
him  has  a  pretty  little  sum  of  money,  and  the  connection  is 
all  that  could  be  wished;  she  is  nice  looking,  too,  and  is  a 
bright,  taking  little  body—"  But  here  Kan  made  such  a 
resolute  eifort  to  pass,  that  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost 
upon  her. 

Dick,  who  was  strolling  up  and  down  the  lawn  rather  dis- 
contentedl}^  hurried  up  to  her  as  she  came  out. 

*'  They  are  playing  a  waltz;  come,  Nan,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  her  with  his  usual  eagerness;  but  she  shook 
her  head. 

^.' I  can  not  dance;  1  am  too  tired:  there  are  others  you 
ought  to  ask."  She  spoke  a  little  ungraciously,  and  Dick's 
face  wore  a  look  of  dismay  as  she  walked  away  from  him  with 
quick  even  footsteps. 

Tired!  Nan  tired!  he  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 
What  had  put  her  out?  The  sweet  brightness  had  died  out 
of  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  were  flaming.  Should  he  follow 
her  and  have  it  out  with  her,  there  and  then?  But,  as  he 
hesitated,  young  Hamilton  came  over  the  grass  and  linked  his 
arm  in  his. 

"  Come  aud  introduce  me  to  that  girl  in  blue  gauze,  or 
whatever  you  call  that  flimsy  manufacture.  Come  along, 
there's  a  good  fellow,"  he  said,  coaxingly;  and  Dick's  oppor- 
tunity was  lost. 

But  he  was  wrong;  for  once  in  her  life  Nan  was  tired;  the 
poor  girl  felt  a  sudden  quenching  of  her  bright  elasticity  that 
amounted  to  absolute  fatigue. 

She  had  spoken  to  Dick  sharply;  but  that  was  to  get  rid  of 
Jiim  aud  to  recall  him  to  a  sense  of  his  duty.     Not  for  worlds 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  87 

would  she  be  seen  dancing  with  him,  or  even  talking  to  him, 
again! 

Sho  sat  down  on  a  stumiD  of  a  tree  in  the  shrubbery,  and 
wondered  wearily  what  had  taken  it  out  of  her  so  much.  And 
then  she  recalled,  sentence  by  sentence,  everything  that  had 
passed  in  the  conservatory. 

She  had  found  out  quite  lately  that  Mr.  Mayne  did  not  ap- 
prove of  her  intimacy  with  Dick.  His  manner  had  somewhat 
changed  to  her,  and  several  times  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  a 
carping,  fault-finding  way— little  cut-and-dried  sentences  of 
elderly  wisdom  that  she  had  not  understood  at  the  time. 

She  had  not  pleased  him  of  late,  somehow,  and  all  her  little 
efforts  and  overtures  had  been  lost  upon  iiim.  Nan  had  been 
quite  aware  of  this,  but  it  had  not  troubled  her  much:  it  was 
a  way  he  had,  and  he  meant  nothing  by  it.  Most  men  had 
humors  that  must  be  respected,  and  Dick's  father  had  his. 
So  she  bore  herself  very  sweetly  toward  him,  treating  his 
caustic  remarks  as  jokes,  and  laughing  pleasantly  at  tliem, 
never  taking  his  hints  in  earnest;  he  would  know  better  some 
day,  that  was  all;  but  she  had  no  idea  of  any  dee23ly  laid  plan 
against  their  happiness.  She  felt  as  though  some  one  had 
struck  her  hard;  she  had  received  a  blow  that  set  all  her  nerves 
tingling.  It  was  very  funny,  what  he  said;  it  was  so  droll 
that  it  almost  made  her  laugh;  and  yet  her  eyes  smarted,  and 
her  cheeks  felt  on  fire. 

"  '  Dick  must  marjy  money.*  AVhy  must  he? — that  was 
so  droll.  '  Well,  not  an  heiress  exactly,  but  a  pretty  little 
sum  of  money,  and  a  bright,  taking  little  bod}'.'  Who  was 
this  mysterious  person  whom  he  had  in  view,  whose  cou- 
i»ections  were  so  desirable,  who  was  to  be  Dick's  future  wife? 
Dick's  future-wife!"  repeated  Nan,  with  an  odd  little  quiver 
of  her  lip.  "  And  was  it  not  droll,  settling  it  all  for  him  like 
that?" 

Nan  fell  into  a  brown  study,  and  then  woke  up  with  a  little 
gasp.  It  was  all  clear  to  her  now,  all  those  little  cut-and-dried 
sentences — all  those  veiled  sueeis  and  innuendoes. 

They  were  poor — poor  as  church  mice — and  Dick  must 
marry  money.  Mr.  Mayne  had  laid  his  plans  for  his  son,  and 
was  watching  their  growing  intimacy  with  disapproving  eyes. 
Perhaps  "  the  bright  taking  little  body  "  might  accompany 
them  to  Switzerland;  perhaps  among  the  mountains  Dick  svould 
forget  her,  and  lend  a  ready  acquiescence  to  his  father's  plans. 
Who  was  she?  Had  Kan  ever  seen  her?  Could  she  be  here 
this  afternoon,  this  future  rival  and  enemy  of  her  peace? 

"  Ah,  what  nonsense  I  am  thinking!"  she  exclaimed  to  her- 


38  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS. 

self,  starting  up  '.vitli  a  little  shame  and  impatience  at  her  own 
tlioiights.  "  What  has  all  this  got  to  do  with  me?  Let  them 
settle  it  betiveeu  them — money-bags  and  all.  Dick  is  Dick, 
and,  after  all,  I  am  not  afraid  I"  And  Nan  marched  back  to 
the  company,  with  her  head  higher,  and  a  great  assumption 
of  cheerfulness,  and  a  little  gnawing  feeling  of  discomfort  at 
her  heart,  to  which  she  would  not  have  owned  for  worlds. 

Nan  was  the  gayest  of  the  day  that  evening,  but  she  would 
not  dance  agaui  with  Dick;  she  sent  the  poor  boy  away  from 
her  with  a  decision  and  peremptoriness  that  struck  him  with 
fresh  dismay. 

"  You  are  not  tired  now.  Nan;  you  have  been  waltzing 
ever  so  long  with  Cathcart  and  Hamilton." 

"  Never  mind  about  me  to-night;  you  must  go  and  ask 
Lady  Fitzroy.  No,  I  am  not  cross.  Do  you  think  I  would 
be  cross  to  you  on  your  birthday?  But  all  the  same  I  will  not 
have  you  neglect  your  duties.  Go  and  ask  her  this  moment, 
sir!"  And  Nan  smiled  in  his  face  in  the  most  bewitching 
way,  and  gave  a  little  flutter  to  her  fan.  She  accepted  Mr. 
Hamilton's  invitation  to  a  waltz  under  Dick's  very  eyes,  and 
whirled  away  on  his  arm,  while  Dick  stood  looking  at  her 
ruefully. 

J  ust  at  the  very  last  moment  Nan's  heart  relented. 

"  Walk  down  to  the  gate  with  us,"  she  whispered,  as  she 
passed  him  on  her  way  to  the  cloak-room. 

Dick,  who  was  by  this  time  in  a  somewhat  surly  humor, 
made  no  sort  of  response;  nevertheless.  Nan  found  him  out  on 
the  gravel  path  waiting  for  them,  in  company  with  Cathcart 
and  Hamilton. 

Nan  shook  off  the  latter  rather  cleverly,  and  took  Dick's 
arm,  in  cheerful  unconsciousness  of  his  ill  humor. 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  come  with  us.  I  wanted  to  get 
you  a  moment  to  myself,  to  congratulate  you  on  the  success 
of  the  evening.  It  was  admirably  managed;  every  one  says 
so:  even  Lady  Fitzroy  was  pleased,  and  her  ladyship  is  a  trifle 
fastidious.  Have  the  band  in-doors,  and  set  them  to  dancing 
—  that  is  what  I  said;  and  it  has  turned  out  a  complete  suc- 
cess," finished  Nan,  with  a  little  gush  of  enthusiasm;  but  she 
did  not  find  Dick  responsive. 

"  Oh,  bother  the  success  and  all  that!"  returned  that  very 
misguided  young  man;  "  it  was  the  slowest  affair  to  me,  I  as- 
sure you,  anti  I  am  thankful  it  is  over.  You  have  spoiled  the 
eve!u"ng  to  me,  and  that  is  what  you  have  done,"  grumbled 
Dick,  ill  his  most  ominous  voice. 

"  I  spoiled  your  evening,  you  ungrateful  boy!"  replied  Nan, 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  39 

innocently;  but  she  sniiletl  to  herself  in  the  darkness,  and  the 
reproach  was  sweet  to  her.  They  had  entered  the  garden  of 
Glen  Cottage  by  this  time,  and  Dick  was  fiercely  marching 
her  down  a  side  path  that  led  to  the  kitchen.  The  hall  door 
stood  open.  Cathcart  and  Hamilton  were  chattering  with  the 
girls  in  the  porch,  while  Mrs.  Challoner  went  inside.  They 
peered  curiously  into  the  summer  dusk,  as  Dick's  impatient 
footsteps  grated  on  the  gravel  path. 

"  I  spoiled  your  evening!"  repeated  Nan,  lifting  her  bright; 
eyes  with  the  gleam  of  fun  still  in  them. 

"Yes,"  blurted  out  Dick.  "  Why  have  yoa  kept  me  at 
such  a  distance  all  the  evening?  Why  would  you  not  dance 
with  me?  and  you  gave  Hamilton  three  waltzes.  It  was  not 
like  you,  Nan,  to  treat  me  so— and  on  my  birthday,  too,'' 
\vent"o!i  the  poor  fellow,  with  a  pathos  that  brought  another 
sort  of  gleam  to  Nan's  eyes,  only  she  still  laughed. 

"  Ah,  you  foolish  boy!"  she  said,  and  gave  his  coat-sleeve  a 
coaxing  little  jjat.  "  I  would  rather  have  danced  with  you 
than  Mr.  Hamilton,  though  he  does  reverse  beautifully,  and  I 
never  knew  any  one  who  waltzed  more  perfectly." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  presume  to  rival  Hamilton,"  began  Dick, 
hotly,  but  she  silenced  him. 

"Listen  to  me,  you  foolish  Dick.  I  would  have  danced  with 
you  willingly,  but  1  knew  my  duty  better,  or  rather  I  knew 
yours.  You  were  a  public  man  to-day;  the  eyes  of  the  county 
were  upon  you.  You  had  to  pay  court  to  the  big  ladies,  and 
to  take  no  notice  of  poor  little  me.  I  sent  you  away  for  your 
own  g;)od,  and  because  I  valued  youi*  duty  above  my  pleasure," 
continued  this  heroic  young  person  in  a  perfectly  satisfied  tone. 

"  And  you  wanted  to  dance  with  me.  Nan,  and  not  with 
that  goose  of  a  Hamilton?"  in  a  wheedling  voice. 

"  Yes,  Dick;  but  he  is  not  a  goose  for  all  that:  he  is  more 
of  a  swan  in  my  opinion." 

"He  is  a  conceited  ass,"  was  the  very  unexpected  reply, 
which  was  a  little  hard  on  Dick's  chum,  who  was  in  many  ways 
a  most  estimable  young  man  and  vastly  his  sujierior.  "  Why 
are  you  laughing,  when  you  know  I  hate  prigs?  and  Hamilton 
is  about  the  biggest  lever  knew."  But  this  did  not  mend 
matters,  and  Nan's  laugh  still  rang  merrily  in  the  darkness. 

"  What  are  those  two  doing?"  asked  Phillis,  trying  to  peep 
between  the  lilac  bushes,  but  failing  to  discover  more  than  the 
whit3  glimmer  of  Nan's  shawl. 

Nan's  laugh,  though  it  was  full  of  sweet  triumph,  only  ir- 
ritated Dick;  the  lord  of  the  evening  was  still  too  sore  and 


40  KOT    LIKE    OTHEB    GIRLS. 

humiliufced  by  all  these  rebuffs  and  repulses  to  take  tbe  fun  in 
good  part. 

"  What  is  it  that  amuses  you  so?''  he  asked,  rather  crossly. 
"  That  is  the  worst  of  you  girls;  you  are  always  so  ready  to 
make  merry  at  a  fellow's  expense.  You  are  taking  Hamil- 
ton's part  against  me.  Nan— I,  who  am  your  oldest  friend, 
who  have  always  been  faithful  to  you  ever  since  you  were  a 
child,"  continued  the  young  man,  with  a  growing  sense  of 
aggravation. 

"  Oh,  Dick!"  and  Nan's  voice  faltered  a  littlej  she  was 
rather  touched  at  this. 

Dick  took  instant  note  of  the  change  of  key,  and  went  on 
in  the  same  injured  voice: 

''  Why  should  I  look  after  all  the  big  people  and  take  no 
notice  of  you?  Have  I  not  made  it  my  first  duty  to  look  after 
you  as  long  as  I  can  remember?  Though  the  whole  world 
were  about  us,  would  you  not  be  the  first  and  the  principal 
to  mer 

"  Don't,  Dick,"  she  said,  faintly,  trying  to  repress  him; 
"  you  must  not  talk  in  that  way,  and  I  must  not  listen  to  you; 
your  father  would  not  like  it."  The  words  were  sweet  to  her 
— precious  beyond  everything — but  she  must  not  have  him 
speak  them.  But  Dick,  in  his  angry  excitement,  was  not  to 
be  repressed. 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  he  likes?  This  is  between 
you  and  me,  Nan;  no  one  shall  meddle  between  us  two." 
But  what  imprudent  speech  Dick  was  about  to  add  was  sud- 
denly quenched  in  light-pealing  laughter.  At  this  critical 
moment  thpy  were  met  and  surrounded;  before  them  was  the 
red  glow  of  Cathcart's  cigar,  the  whiteness  of  Phillis's  gown; 
behind  were  two  more  advancing  figures.  In  another  second 
the  young  people  had  joined  hands:  a  dusky  ring  formed  round 
the  startled  pair. 

"  Fairly  caught!"  cried  Dulce's  sunshiny  voice;  the  mis- 
chievous little  monkey  had  no  idea  of  the  sport  she  was  spoil- 
ing. None  of  the  young  people  thought  of  anything  but  fun; 
Dick  was  just  Dick,  and  he  and  Nan  were  always  together. 

Dick  muttered  something  inaudible  under  his  breath;  buC 
Nan  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion;  she  was  still  palpitating 
a  little  with  the  pleasure  Dick's  words  had  given  her,  but  she 
confronted  her  tormentors  boldly. 

*'  You  absurd  creatures,"  she  said,  "  to  steal  a  march  on  us 
like  that!  Dick  and  I  were  having  a  quarrel;  we  were  fight- 
ing so  hard  that  we  did  not  hear  you." 

"  I  enjoy  a  good  fight  above  everything,"  exclaimed  Catht 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  41 

cart,  throwing  away  his  cigar.  He  was  a  handsome  dark-eyed 
boy,  with  no  special  individuality,  except  an  overweening  sense 
of  fun.  "  What's  the  odds,  Mayne?  and  who  is  likely  to  be 
the  winner?" 

"  Oh,  ISjan,  of  course,"  returned  Diok,  trying  to  recover 
himself.  "  I  am  the  captive  of  her  spear  and  of  her  bow; 
she  is  in  possession  of  everything,  myself  included." 

The  rest  laughed  at  Dick's  jest,  as  they  thought  it;  and  Mr. 
Hamilton  said,  "  Bravo,  Miss  Challoner!  we  will  help  to  drag 
him  at  your  chariot-wheels."  But  Nan  changed  color  in  the 
darkness. 

They  went  in  after  this,  and  the  young  men  took  their  leave 
in  the  porch.  Dick's  strong  grip  of  the  hand  conveyed  his 
meaning  fully  to  Nan.  "  Eemember,  1  meant  it  all,"  it  seemed 
to  say  to  her. 

"  What  did  it  matter?  1  am  quite  sure  of  him.  Dick  is 
Dick,"  thought  Nan,  as  she  laid  her  head  happily  on  the 
pillow. 

As  for  Dick,  he  had  a  long  ordeal  before  him  ere  he  could 
make  his  escape  to  the  smoking- room,  where  his  friends  awaited 
him.  Mr.  Mayne  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  him  about  the 
day,  and  Dick  had  to  listen  and  try  to  look  interested. 

"  I  am  sure  Dick  behaved  beautifully,"  observed  Mrs. 
Mayne,  when  her  son  and  heir  had  at  last  lounged  off  to  his 
companions. 

"  Well,  yes;  he  did  very  well  on  the  whole,"  was  the 
grudging  response;  "  but  I  must  say  those  Challoner  girls 
made  themselves  far  too  conspicuous  for  my  tastej"  but  to 
this  his  wife  prudently  made  no  reply. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ME.    TEINDER's  visit. 

The  next  few  days  passed  far  too  quickly  for  Nan's  pleas- 
ure, and  Dick's  last  morning  arrived.  The  very  next  day  the 
Mayues  were  to  start  for  Switzerland,  and  Longmead  was  to 
stand  empty  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer.  It  was  a  dreary 
prospect  for  Nan,  and  in  spite  of  her  high  spirits  her  courage 
grew  somewhat  low.  Six  months!  who  could  know  what  might; 
happen  before  they  met  again?  Nan  was  not  the  least  bit 
superstitious,  neither  was  it  her  wont  to  indulge  in  useless 
speculations  or  forebodings;  but  she  could  not  shake  off  this 
morning  a  strange  uncanny  feeling  that  haunted  her  in  spile 
ol  hersuif — a  presentiment  that  things  were  not  going  to  be 


42  NOT    LIKE    OTEEU    GIRLS. 

just  as  she  would  have  them — that  Dick  and  she  would  not 
meet  again  in  exactly  the  same  manner. 

"  How  silly  I  am!'"  she  thought,  for  the  twentieth  time,  as 
she  brushed  out  her  glossy  brown  hair  and  arranged  it  in  her 
usual  simple  fashion. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  were  a  little  behind  the  times  in  some 
ways;  they  had  never  thought  fit  to  curl  their  hair  en  gar^on, 
or  to  mount  a  pyramid  of  tangled  curls  in  imitation  of  a  poodle; 
no  pruning-scissors  had  touched  the  light-springing  locks  that 
grew  so  prettily  about  their  temples;  in  this,  as  in  much  else, 
they  were  unlike  other  girls,  for  they  dared  to  i^ut  individuality 
before  fashion,  and  good  taste  and  a  sense  of  beauty  against 
the  specious  arguments  of  the  multitude. 

"  How  silly  I  am!"  again  repeated  Nan.  "  What  can  hap- 
pen, what  should  happen,  except  that  I  shall  have  a  dull  sum- 
mer, and  shall  be  very  glad  when  Christmas  and  Dick  come 
together;"  and  then  she  shook  her  little  basket  of  housekeep- 
ing keys  until  they  jingled  merrily,  and  ran  down-stairs  with 
a  countenance  she  meant  to  keep  bright  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

They  were  to  play  tennis  at  the  Paiues'  that  afternoon,  and 
afterward  the  three  girls  were  to  dine  at  Longmead.  Mrs. 
Challoner  had  been  invited  also;  but  she  had  made  some  ex- 
cuse, and  pleaded  for  a  quiet  evening.  She  was  never  very  ready 
to  accept  these  invitations;  there  was  nothing  in  common  be- 
tween her  and  Mrs.  Mayne;  and  in  her  heart  she  agreed  with 
Lady  Fitzroy  in  thinking  the  master  of  Longmead  odious. 

It  was  Mr.  Mayne  who  had  tendered  this  parting  hospitality 
to  his  neighbors,  and  he  chose  to  be  much  offentled  at  Mrs. 
Challoner's  refusal. 

"  I  think  it  is  very  unfriendly  of  your  mother,  when  we 
are  such  old  neighbors,  and  on  our  last  evening,  too,"  he  said 
to  Kan,  as  she  entered  the  drawing-room  that  evening,  bring- 
ing her  mother's  excuses  wra23ped  up  in  the  prettiest  words 
she  could  find. 

"  Mother  is  not  quite  well;  she  does  not  feel  up  to  the  exer- 
tion of  dining  out  to-night,"  returned  Nan,  trying  to  put  a 
good  face  on  it,  but  feeling  as  though  things  were  too  much 
for  her  this  evening.  It  was  bad  enough  for  Mr.  Majne  to 
insist  on  them  all  coming  up  to  a  long  formal  dinner,  and 
spoiling  their  chances  of  a  twilight  stroll;  but  it  was  still 
worse  for  her  mother  to  abandon  them  after  this  fashion. 

The  new  novel  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  this 
sudden  indisposition;  but  when  Mrs.  Challoner  had  wrapped 
herself  up  in  her  white  shawl,  always  a  bad  sign  with  her,  and 
had  declared  herself  unfit  for  any  exertion,  what  could  a  duti- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  43 

ful  daughter  do  but  deliver  her  excuses  as  gracefully  as  dio 
coulJ?  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Majne  frowued  and  expredseJ  him- 
self ill  pleased. 

"  1  should  have  thought  an  effort  could  have  been  made  ou 
such  an  occasion,"  was  his  final  thrust,  as  he  gave  his  arm 
ungraciously  to  Xau,  and  conducted  her  with  ominous  solemn- 
ity to  the  table. 

It  was  not  a  festive  meal,  in  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Maync's 
efforts.  Dick  looked  glum.  He  was  separated  from  Nan  by 
a  vast  silver  epergne,  that  fully  screened  her  from  view.  An- 
other time  she  would  have  peeped  merrily  round  at  him  and 
given  him  a  sprightly  nod  or  two;  but  how  was  ghe  to  do  it 
wheu  Mr.  Mayne  never  relaxed  his  gloomy  muscles,  and  when 
he  insisted  ou  keeping  up  a  ceremonious  flow  of  conversation 
with  her  on  the  subjects  of  the  day? 

When  Dick  tried  to  strike  into  their  talk,  he  got  so  visibly 
snubbed  that  he  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  with  Phillis. 

"  You  young  fellows  never  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,"  observed  Mr.  Mayne,  sharply,  when  Dick  had  hazarded 
a  remark  about  the  premier's  policy;  "  you  are  a  Radical  one 
day  and  a  Conservative  another.  That  comes  of  your  debat- 
ing societies.  You  take  contrary  sides,  and  mix  up  a  balder- 
dash of  ideas,  until  you  don't  know  whether  you  are  standing 
ou  your  head  or  your  heels;"  and  it  was  after  this  that  Dick 
fouud  his  refuge  with  Phillis. 

It  was  little  better  when  they  were  all  in  the  drav/ing-room 
together.  If  Mr.  Mayne  had  invited  them  there  for  the  pur- 
pose of  keeping  them  all  under  his  own  eyes  and  making  them 
uncomfortable,  he  could  not  have  managed  better.  When 
Dick  suggested  a  stroll  in  the  garden  he  said: 

"  Pshaw!  what  nonsense  proposing  such  a  thing,  when  the 
dews  are  heavy  and  the  girls  will  catch  their  deaths  of  cold!" 

"  We  do  it  every  evening  of  our  lives,"  observed  Nan,  hard- 
ily; but  even  she  dared  not  persevere  in  the  face  of  this  pro- 
test, though  she  exchanged  a  rebellious  look  with  Dick  that 
did  him  good  and  put  him  in  a  better  humor. 

They  found  their  way  into  the  conservatory  after  that,  but 
were  hunted  out  on  pretense  of  having  a  little  music;  at  least 
Nan  would  have  it  that  it  was  pretense. 

"  Your  father  does  not  care  much  for  music,  1  know,"  she 
whispered,  as  she  placed  herself  at  the  grand  piano,  while 
Dick  leaned  against  it  and  watched  her.  It  was  naughty  of 
Nan,  but  there  was  no  denying  that  she  found  Mr.  Mayne 
more  aggravating  than  usual  this  evening. 

"  Come,  come,  Miss  Nancy!"    he  called  out — he  always 


44  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

called  her  that  when  he  wished  to  annoy  her,  for  Nan  had  a 
special  dislike  to  her  quaint,  old-fashioned  name;  it  had  been 
her  mother's  and  grandmother's  name;  in  every  generation 
there  had  been  a  Nancy  Challoner — "  come,  corne,  Miss  Nanny! 
we  can  not  have  you  playing  at  hide-and-seek  iti  this  fashion. 
We  want  some  music.  Give  us  something  rousing,  to  keep  us 
all  awake."  And  Nan  had  reluctantly  placed  herself  at  the 
piano. 

She  did  her  little  best  according  to  orders,  for  she  dared  not 
offend  Dick's  father.  None  of  the  ChalJoners  were  accom- 
plished girls.  Dulce  sung  a  little,  and  so  did  Nan,  but  Phillis 
could  not  play  the  simplest  piece  without  bungling;  and  her 
uncertain  little  vvarbiings,  which  were  sweet  but  hardly  true, 
were  reserved  for  church. 

Dulce  sung  very  prettily,  hut  she  could  only  manage  her 
own  accompaniments  or  a  sprightly  waltz.  Nan,  who  did 
most  of  the  execution  of  the  family,  was  a  very  fair  performer 
from  a  young  lady's  point  of  view,  and  that  is  not  saying 
much.  She  always  had  her  piece  ready  if  peo23le  wanted  lier 
to  play.  She  sat  down  without  nervousness  and  rose  without 
haste.  She  had  a  choice  little  repertory  of  old  songs  and  bal- 
lads, that  she  could  produce  without  hesitation  from  memory 
— "  My  mother  bids  me  bind  my  hair,"  or  "  Did  your  faithful 
Ariel  tly,"  and  such-like  old  songs,  in  which  there  is  more 
melody  than  in  a  hundred  new  ones,  and  which  she  sung  in  a 
simple,  artless  fashion  that  pleased  the  elder  people  greatly. 
Dulce  could  do  more  than  this,  but  her  voice  had  never  been 
properly  tutored,  and  she  sung  her  bird-music  in  bird-fashion, 
rather  wildly  and  shrilly,  with  small  respect  to  rule  and  art, 
nevertheless  making  a  pleasing  noise,  as  a  young  foreigner 
once  told  her. 

When  Nan  had  exhausted  her  little  stock,  Mr.  Mayne  per- 
emptorily invited  them  to  a  round  game;  and  the  rest  of  (he 
evening  was  spent  in  trying  to  master  the  mysteries  of  a  new 
game,  over  the  involved  rules  of  which  Mr.  Mayne,  as  usual, 
wrangled  fiercely  with  everybody,  while  Dick  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  shuffled  his  cards  with  such  evident  ill-humor 
that  Nan  hurried  her  sisters  away  half  an  hour  before  the 
usual  time,  in  terror  of  an  outbreak. 

It  was  an  utterly  disapt)ointing  evening;  and,  to  make  mat- 
ters worse,  Mr.  Mayne  actually  lighted  his  cigar  and  strolled 
down  the  garden  paths,  keeping  quite  close  to  Nan,  and  show- 
ing such  obvious  intention  of  accompanying  them  to  the  very 
gale  of  the  cottage  that  there  could  be  no  thought  of  any 
sweet  lingerhig  in  the  dusk. 


NOT    LiKte    OtHER    GIRLS.  45 

"  I  will  be  even  with  him/' growled  Dick,  who  was  in  a 
state  of  suppressed  irritation  under  this  unexpected  surveil- 
lance; and  in  the  darkest  part  of  the  road  he  twitched  Nan's 
sleeve  to  attract  her  attention,  and  whispered,  in  so  Iowa  voice 
that  his  father  could  not  hear  him,  "  This  is  not  good-b3'e. 
1  will  be  round  at  the  cottage  to-morrow  morning;"  and  Naa 
nodded  hurriedly,  and  then  turned  her  head  to  answer  Mr. 
Mayue's  last  question. 

If  Dick  had  put  all  his  feelings  in  his  hand-shake,  it  could 
not  have  spoken  to  Nan  more  eloquently  of  the  young's  man 
wrath  and  chagrin  and  concealed  tenderness.  Nan  shot  him 
one  of  her  swift,  straightforward  looks  in  answer. 

"  Never  mind,"  it  seemed  to  say;  "  we  shall  have  to-mor- 
row;" and  then  she  bade  them  cheerfully  good-night. 

Dorothy  met  her  iu  the  hall,  and  put  down  her  chamber 
candle-stick. 

"  Has  the  mother  gone  to  bed  yet,  Dorothy?"  questioned 
the  young  mistress,  speaking  still  with  that  enforced  cheer- 
falness. 

"  No,  Miss  Nan;  she  is  still  there,"  jerking  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  drawing-room.  "  Mr.  Trinder  called,  and 
was  with  her  a  long  time.  I  thought  she  seemed  a  bit  poorly 
when  I  took  in  the  lamp." 

"  Mamsie  is  never  fit  for  anything  when  that  old  ogre  has 
been,"  broke  in  Dulce,  impatiently.  "  He  always  comes  and 
tells  her  some  nightmare  tale  or  other  to  prevent  her  sleep- 
ing. Now  we  shall  not  have  the  new  gowns  we  set  our  hearts 
on.  Nan." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  gowns,"  returned  Nan,  rather  wearily. 

What  did  it  matter  if  they  had  to  wear  their  old  ones  when 
Dick  woulil  not  be  there  to  see  them?  And  Dorothy,  who 
was  contemplating  her  favorite  nursling  with  the  privileged 
tenderness  of  an  old  servant,  chimed  in  with  the  utmost  cheer- 
fulness: 

"  It  does  not  matter  what  she  wears;  does  it.  Miss  Nan? 
She  looks  just  as  nice  in  an  old  gown  as  a  new  one;  that  is 
what  I  say  of  ail  my  young  ladies;  dress  does  not  matter  a  bit 
to  them." 

"  How  long  are  you  all  going  to  stand  chattering  with  Dor- 
othy?" interrupted  Phillis,  in  her  clear  decided  voice.  "  Mo- 
ther will  wonder  what  conspiracy  we  are  hatching,  and  why 
we  leave  her  so  long  alone.''  And  then  Dorothy  took  up  her 
candle-stick,  grumbling  a  little,  as  she  often  did,  over  Miss 
Phillis's  masterful  ways,  and  the  girls  went  laughingly  into 
their  mother's  presence. 


46  l^OT    Llr.L    viHtU    GIRLS. 

Though  it  vvaa  summGr-tiiuG,  Mrs.  Challoner's  easy-ohaiP 
was  dra^Vii  up  in  front  of  the  rug,  and  she  sat  wrapped  in  h^r 
white  shawl,  willi  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  pretty  painted  fire- 
screen that  hid  the  blackness  of  the  coals.  She  did  not  tura 
her  head  or  move  as  her  daughters  entered;  indeed,  so  mo- 
tionless was  lier  attitude  that  Dulce  thought  she  was  asleepl 
:and  went  on  tiptoe  round  her  chair  to  steal  a  kiss.  But  Nam 
who  had  caught  sight  of  her  mother's  face^  put  her  quickly 
aside.  i 

"  Don't,  Dulce:  mother  is  not  well.  What  is  the  matterl 
manimie  darling?"  kneeling  down  and  bringing  her  bright 
face  on  a  level  with  her  mother's.  She  would  have  taken  her 
into  her  vigorous  young  arms,  but  Mrs.  Ohalloner  almost 
pushed  her  away.  | 

"Hush,  children!  Do  be  quiet.  Nan;  1  can  not  talk  to 
you.  I  can  not  answer  questions  to-night."  And  then  sle 
shivered,  and  drew  her  shawl  closer  round  her,  and  put  aw^y 
Nan's  caressiiig  hands,  and  looked  at  them  all  with  a  faCo 
that  seemed  to  have  grown  pinched  and  old  all  at  once,  atid 
eyes  full  of  misery, 

"  Mammie,  you  must  speak  to  us,"  returned  Nan,  not  a 
whit  daunted  by  this  rebuff,  but  horribly  frightened  all  the 
time.  "  Of  course,  Dorothy  told  us  that  Mr.  Trinder  has 
been  here,  and  of  course  we  know  that  it  is  some  trouble  about 
money."  Then,  at  the  mention  of  Mr.  Triuder's  name,  Mrs. 
Challoner  shivered  again. 

Nan  waited  a  moment  for  an  answer;  but,  as  none  came, 
she  went  on  in  a  coaxing  voice: 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  us,  mother  darling;  we  can  all 
bear  a  little  trouble,  I  hojae.  We  have  had  such  happy  lives, 
and  we  can  not  go  on  being  happy  always,"  continued  the 
girl,  with  the  painful  conviction  coming  suddenly  into  her 
mind  that  the  brightness  of  these  days  was  over.  "  Money  is 
very  nice,  and  one  can  not  do  without  it,  I  suppose;  but  as 
long  as  we  are  together,  and  love  each  other — " 

Then  Mrs.  Challoner  fixed  her  heavy  eyes  on  her  daughter, 
and  took  up  the  unfinished  sentence: 

"  Ah,  if  we  could  only  be  together — if  I  were  not  to  be  sep- 
arated from  my  children!  it  is  that — that  is  crushing  me!" 
and  then  she  pressed  her  dry  lips  together,  and  folded  her 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair;  "  but  I  know  that  it  must 
be,  for  Mr.  Trinder  has  told  me  everything.  It  is  no  use 
shutting  our  eyes  and  struggling  on  any  longer;  for  we  are 
ruined — ruined!"  her  voice  sinking  into  indistinctness. 

Nan  grew  a  little  pale.     If  they  were  ruined,  how  would  it 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  47 

be  with  her  aud  Dick^  And  then  she  thought  of  Mr.  Mavne, 
awl  her  heart  felt  faint  witliiu  her.  Xan,  who  had  Dick 
auded  to  her  perplexities,  was  hardly  equal  to  the  emergency; 
but  it  was  Philiis  who  took  the  domestic  helm  as  it  fell  from 
her  sister's  hand. 

"  If  we  be  ruined,  mother,"  she  said,  briskly,  "  it  is  not 
half  so  bad  as  having  you  ilk  Kan,  why  dou't  you  rub  her 
lands?  she  is  shivering  with  cold,  or  with  bad  news,  or  some- 
tiling.  I  mean  to  set  Dorothy  at  defiance,  and  to  light  a  nice 
I'ttle  fire,  in  spite  of  the  clean  muslin  curtains.  When  one  is 
i'l  or  unha[)py,  there  is  nothing  so  soothing  as  a  fire,"  con- 
tuued  Phillis,  as  she  removed  the  screen  aud  kindled  the  dry 
wood,  not  heeding  Mrs.  Challoner's  feeble  remonstrances. 

"  Don't,  Phillis:  we  shall  not  be  able  to  afford  fires  now;'* 
aad  then  she  became  a  little  hysterical.  But  Phillis  persisted, 
aid  the  red  glow  was  soon  coaxed  into  a  cheerful  blaze. 

"  That  looks  more  comfortable.  I  feel  chilly  myself;  these 
simmer  nights  are  sometimes  deceptive.  I  wonder  what 
Dorothy  will  say  to  us;  I  mean  to  ask  her  to  make  ns  all  some 
tet.  ISo,  mammie,  you  are  not  to  interfere;  it  will  do  you 
good,  and  we  don't  mean  to  have  you  ill  if  we  can  help  it.'* 
Aad  then  she  looked  meaningly  at  Ivan,  aud  withdrew. 

There  was  no  boiling  water,  of  course,  and  the  kitchen  fire 
w&s  raked  out;  aud  Dorothy  was  sitting  in  solitary  state,  look- 
ing very  grim. 

•'  It  is  Lime  for  folks  to  be  in  their  beds.  Miss  Phillis,"  she 
said,  very  crossly.  "  I  don't  hold  with  tea  myself  so  iate:  it 
excites  people,  and  keeps  them  awake." 

'•  Mother  is  not  just  the  thing,  and  a  cup  of  tea  will  do  her 
go)d.  Don't  let  us  keep  you  up,  Dorothy,"  replied  Phillis, 
blandly.  "  I  have  lighted  the  drawing-room  fire,  and  I  can 
boil  the  kettle  in  there.  If  mother  has  got  a  chill,  I  would 
no:  answer  for  the  consequences." 

Dorothy  grew  huffy  at  the  mention  of  the  fire,  and  would 
not  aid  or  abet  her  young  lady's  "  fad,"  as  she  called  it. 

■'  If  you  don't  want  me,  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed.  Miss  Phil- 
lis. Susan  went  off  a  long  time  ago."  And,  as  Phillis  cheer- 
fully acquiesced  in  this  arrangement,  Dorothy  decamped  with 
a  frown  on  her  brow,  and  left  Phillis  mistress  of  the  situation. 

"  There,  now,  1  have  got  rid  of  the  cross  old  thing,"  she 
observed,  in  a  tone  of  relief,  as  she  filled  the  kettle  and  ar- 
ranged, the  little  tea-tray. 

She  carried  them  both  into  the  room,  poising  the  tray  skill- 
fully in  her  hand.  Xan  looked  up  in  a  relieved  way  as  she 
entered.     Mrs.  Challoner  was  stretching  out  her  phllied  hands 


48  NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIELS. 

to  the  blaze.  Her  face  bad  lost  its  pinched  unnatural  exprei 
sion;  it  was  as  though  the  presence  of  her  girls  fenced  her  in  se 
curely,  and  her  misfortune  grew  more  shadowy  and  faded  int 
the  background.  She  drank  the  tea  when  it  was  given  t 
her,  and  even  begged  Nan  to  follow  her  example.  Nan  too 
a  little  to  please  her,  though  she  hardly  believed  its  solace' 
would  be  great;  but  Phillis  and  Dulce  drank  theirs  in  a  busi- 
ness-like way,  as  though  they  needed  support  and  were  nobl 
ashamed  to  own  it.  It  was  Nan  who  put  down,  her  cup  first^ 
and  leaned  her  cheek  against  her  mother's  hand. 

"  Now,  mother  dear,  we  want  to  hear  all  about  it.  Does 
Mr.  Trinder  say  we  are  really  so  dreadfully  poor?" 

"  We  have  been  getting  poorer  for  a  long  time,"  returned 
her  mother,  mournfully;  "  but  if  we  only  had  a  little  left  ua 
I  would  not  complain.  You  see,  your  father  would  persist 
in  these  investments  in  spite  of  all  Mr.  Trinder  could  say,  and 
now  his  words  have  come  true."  But  this  vague  slatemen 
did  not  satisfy  Nan;  and  patiently,  and  with  difiiculty,  s,h\ 
drew  from  her  mother  all  that  the  lawyer  had  told  her.  I 

Mr.  Challoner  had  been  called  to  the  bar  in  eaily  life,  biit 
his  career  had  hardly  been  a  successful  one.  He  had  held  fevr 
briefs,  and,  though  he  worked  hard,  and  had  good  capabilities 
lie  had  never  achieved  fortune;  and  as  he  lived  up  to  his  iiv 
come,  and  was  rather  fond  of  the  good  things  of  this  life,  \p 
got  through  most  of  his  wife's  money,  and,  contrary  to  tHe 
advice  of  older  and  wiser  heads,  invested  the  remainder  in  tlie 
business  of  a  connection  who  only  wanted  capital  to  make  Iiis 
fortune,  and  Mr.  Challoner 's  too. 

It  was  a  grievous  error;  and  yet,  if  Mr.  Challoner  had  lived, 
those  few  thousands  would  hardly  have  been  so  sorely  missed. 
He  was  young  in  his  profession,  and  if  he  had  been  sparefl, 
success  would  have  come  to  him  as  to  other  men;  but  he  was 
cut  oil  unexpectedly  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Challoner 
gave  up  her  large  house  at  Kensington,  and  settled  at  Glen 
Cottage  with  her  three  daughters,  understanding  that  life  was 
changed  for  her,  and  that  they  should  have  to  be  content  with 
small  means  ami  few  wants. 

Hitherto  they  had  had  sufficient;  but  of  late  there  had  been 
dark  whispers  concerning  that  invested  money;  things  were  not 
quite  square  and  above-board;  the  integrity  of  the  firm  was 
doubted.  Mr.  Trinder,  almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  begged 
Mr?.  Challoner  to  be  prudent  and  spend  less.  The  crash 
which  he  had  foreseen,  and  had  vainly  tried  to  avert,  had  come 
to-night.  Gardiner  &  Fowler  were  bankrupt,  and  their  great- 
est creditor,  Mrs.  Challoner,  was  ruined. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  49 

"  We  can  not  get  our  money.  Mr.  Triuder  says  we  never 
shall.  They  have  been  paying  their  dividends  correctly,  keep- 
ing it  up  as  a  sort  of  blind,  he  says;  but  all  the  capital  is  eaten 
away.  George  Gardiner,  too,  your  father's  cousin,  Ihe  man 
he  trusted  above  every  one — he  to  defraud  the  widoiv  and  the 
fatherless,  to  take  our  money — my  children's  only  portion — 
and  to  leave  us  beggared.''  And  Mrs.  Challoner,  made  trag- 
ical by  this  great  blow,  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  her 
girls  with  two  large  tears  rolling  down  her  face. 

"  Mother,  are  you  sure?  is  it  quite  as  bad  as  that?"  asked 
Nan,  and  then  she  kissed  away  the  tears,  and  said  something 
rather  brokenly  about  having  faith,  and  trying  not  to  lose 
courage;  then  her  voice  failed  her,  and  they  all  sat  quiet 
together. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

PHILLIS'S  CATECHISM. 

A  VEIL  of  silence  fell  over  the  little  party.  After  the  first 
few  moments  of  disma}',  conjecture,  and  exclamation,  there 
did  not  seem  to  be  much  that  any  one  could  say.  Each  girl 
was  busy  with  her  own  thoughts  and  private  interpretation  of 
a  most  sorrowful  enigma.  What  were  they  to  do?  How  were 
they  to  live  without  separation,  and  without  taking  a  solitary 
plunge  nito  an  unknown  and  most  terrifying  world? 

Nan's  frame  of  mind  was  slightly  monotonous.  What  would 
Dick  say,  and  how  would  this  affect  certain  vague  hopes  she 
had  lately  cherished?  Then  she  thought  of  Mr.  Mayne,  and 
shivered,  and  a  sense  of  coldness  and  remote  fears  stole  over 
her. 

One  could  hardly  blame  her  for  this  sweet  dual  selfishness 
that  was  not  selfishness.  She  was  thinking  less  of  herself 
than  of  a  certain  vigorous  young  life  that  was  becoming 
strongly  intwined  with  hers.  It  was  all  very  well  to  say 
that  Dick  was  Dick;  but  what  could  the  most  obstinate  will 
of  even  that  most  obstinate  young  man  avail  against  such  a 
miserable  combination  of  adverse  influences — "  when  the  stars 
in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera?"  And  at  this  juncture 
of  her  thoughts  she  could  feel  PhilJis's  hand  folding  softly  over 
hers  v;ith  a  most  sisterly  pressure  full  of  understanding  and 
sympathy.  Phillis  had  no  Dick  to  stand  sentinel  over  her 
private  thougSits;  she  was  free  to  be  alert  and  vigilant  for 
others.  Nevertheless,  her  forehead  was  puckered  up  with 
hard  thinking,  and  her  silence  was  so  very  expressive  that 
Dulce  sat  and  looked  at  her  with  grave,  unsmiling  eyes,  the  in- 


50  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

nooerifc  child-like  look  in  them  growing  very  pathetic  at  the 
speechlessness  that  had  overtaken  them.  As  for  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner,  she  still  moaned  feebly  from  time  to  time,  as  she 
stretched,  her  numb  hands  toward  the  comforting  warmth. 
They  were  fine  delicate  hands,  with  the  polished  look  of  old 
ivory,  and  there  were  diamond  rings  on  them  that  twinkled 
and  shone  as  she  moved  them  in  her  restlessness. 

"  They  shall  all  go;  I  will  keep  nothing,"  she  said,  regard- 
ing them  planitively;  for  they  were  heir-looms,  and  highly 
valued  as  relics  of  a  "  wealthy  past."  "  It  is  not  this  sort  of 
thing  Ihat  I  mind.  I  would  live  on  a  crust  thankfully,  if  I 
could  only  keep  my  children  with  me."  And  she  looked 
round  at  the  blooming  faces  of  her  girls  with  eyes  brimming 
over  with  maternal  fondness. 

Poor  Dulce's  lips  quivered,  and  she  made  a  horrified  gesture. 

"  Oh,  mamsie,  don't  talk  so!  1  never  could  bear  crusts, 
unless  they  were  well  buttered.  I  like  everything  to  be  nice, 
and  to  have  plenty  of  it — plenty  of  sunshine,  and  fun,  and 
holiday-making,  and  friends;  and — and  now  you  are  talking 
as  though  we  must  starve,  and  never  have  anything  to  wear, 
and  go  nowhere,  and  be  miserable  forever."  And  here  Dulce 
broke  into  actual  sobs;  for  was  she  not  the  petted  darling? 
and  had  she  not  had  a  life  so  gilded  by  sunshine  that  she  had 
never  seen  the  dark  edges  of  a  single  cloud?  So  that  even 
Nan  forgot  Dick  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at  her  young  sister 
pityingly;  but  Phillis  interposed  with  bracing  severity: 

"  Don't  talk  such  nonsense,  Dulce.  Of  course  we  must  eat 
to  live,  and  of  course  we  must  have  clothes  to  wear.  Aren't 
Nan  and  I  thinking  ourselves  into  headaches  by  trying  to  con- 
trive how  even  the  crusts  you  so  despise  are  to  be  bought?" 
which  was  hardly  true  as  far  as  Nan  was  concei-ned,  for  she 
blushed  guiltily  over  this  telling  point  in  Phillis's  eloquence. 
"It  only  upsets  mother  to  talk  like  this."  And  then  she 
touched  the  coals  skillfully,  till  they  spluttered  and  blazed  into 
fury.  "  There  is  the  Friary,  you  know,"  she  continued,  look- 
ing calmly  round  on  them,  as  though  she  felt  herself  full  of 
resources.  "  If  Dulce  chooses  to  make  herself  miserable  about 
the. crusts,  we  have,  at  least,  a  roof  to  shelter  us." 

"  I  forgot  the  Friary,"  murmured  Nan,  looking  at  her  sis- 
ter with  admiration;  and,  though  Mrs.  Challoner  said  noth- 
ing, she  started  a  little  as  though  she  had  forgotten  it  too. 
But  Dulce  was  not  to  be  comforted. 

"  That  horrid,  dismal,  poky  old  cottage!"  she  rettn-ned, 
with  a  shrill  rendering  of  each  adjective.  "  You  would  have 
us  go  and  live  iu  that  damp,  musty,  fusty  place?" 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  51 

Phillis  gave  a  succession  of  quick  little  nods. 

*'  1  don't  think  it  particularly  dismal,  or  Nan  either,"  she 
returnea,  in  her  brisk  way,  Phillis  alvva^'s  answered  for  JNan, 
and  was  never  contradicted.  "  It  is  not  dear  Glen  Cottage, 
of  course,  but  we  could  not  begin  munching  our  crusts  here," 
she  continued,  with  a  certain  grim  humor.  Things  were 
apparently  at  their  worst;  but  at  least  she — Phillis — the 
clever  one,  as  she  had  heard  herself  called,  would  do  her  best 
to  keep  the  heads  of  the  little  family  above  water.  "  It  is  a 
nice  little  place  enough,  if  we  were  only  humble  enough  to  see 
it;  and  it  is  not  damp,  and  it  is  our  own,"  running  up  the  ad- 
vantages as  well  as  she  could. 

"The  Friary!"  commented  her  mother,  in  some  surprise; 
**  to  think  of  that  queer  old  cottage  coming  into  your  head! 
And  it  so  seldom  lets.  And  people  say  it  is  dear  at  forty 
pounds  a  year;  and  it  is  so  dull  that  they  do  not  care  to  stay." 

"  Never  mind  all  that,  mammy,"  returned  Phillis,  with  a 
grave,  business-like  face.  "  A  cottage,  rent  free,  that  will 
hold  us,  is  not  to  be  despised;  and  Hadleigh  is  a  nice  place, 
and  the  sea  always  suits  you.  There  is  the  house,  and  the 
furniture  that  belongs  to  us;  and  we  have  plenty  of  clothes  for 
the  present.  How  much  did  Mr.  Trinder  think  we  should 
have  in  hand?" 

Then  her  mother  told  her,  but  still  mournfully,  that  they 
might  possibly  have  about  a  hundred  pounds.  *'  But  there 
are  my  rings  and  that  piece  of  point-lace  that  Lady  Fitzroy 
admired  so — "  but  Phillis  waved  away  that  proposition  with 
an  impatient  frown. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  for  that  when  we  have  got  through 
all  the  money.  Not  that  a  hundred  pounds  would  last  long, 
with  moving,  and  paying  off  the  servants,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

Then  Nan,  who  had  worn  all  along  an  expression  of  admir- 
ing confideuce  in  Phillis's  resources,  originated  an  idea  of  her 
own. 

"  The  mother  might  write  to  uncle  Francis,  perhaps;"  but 
at  this  proposition  Mrs.  Challoner  sat  upright  and  looked  al- 
most oliended.  "  My  dear  Nan,  what  a  preposterous  idea! 
Your  uncle  Francis!" 

"  Well,  mammy,  he  is  our  uncle;  and  1  am  sure  he  would 
be  sorry  if  his  only  brother's  children  were  to  starve." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  know  any  better,"  returjied  Mrs. 
Challoner,  relapsing  into  alarmed  feebleness:  "  ycu  are  not 
able  to  judge.  But  I  never  liked  my  brother-in-law — never; 
he  was  not  a  good  man.     He  was  not  a  person  whom  on§ 


S2  NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GIRLS. 

could  trust/'  continued  the  poor  l^dy,  trying  to  soften  down 
certain  facts  to  her  innocent  young  daughters. 

Sir  Francis  Challoner  had  been  a  black  sheep — a  very  black 
sheep  indeed;  one  who  had  dyed  himself  certainly  to  a  most 
sable  hue;  and  though,  for  such  prodigals,  there  may  be  a  late 
repentance  and  much  killing  of  fatted  calves,  still  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner was  right  in  refusing  to  intrust  herself  and  her  children 
to  the  uncertain  mercies  of  such  a  sinner. 

Now,  Nan  knew  nothing  about  the  sin;  but  she  did  think 
that  an  uncle  who  was  a  baronet  threw  a  certain  reflected 
glory  or  brightness  over  them.  Sir  Francis  might  be  that 
very  suspicious  character,  a  black  sheep;  he  might  be  landless, 
with  the  exception  of  that  ruined  tenement  in  the  north;  nev- 
ertheless. Nan  loved  to  know  that  he  was  of  their  kith  and 
kin.  It  seemed  to  settle  their  claims  to  respectability,  and 
held  Mr.  Mayne  in  some  degree  of  awe;  and  he  knew  that  his 
own  progenitors  had  not  the  faintest  trace  of  blue  blood,  and 
numbered  more  aldermen  than  baronets. 

It  would  have  surprised  and  grieved  Nan,  especially  just 
now,  if  she  had  known  that  no  such  glory  remained  to  her — 
that  Sir  Francis  Challoner  had  long  filled  the  cup  of  his  in- 
iquities, and  lay  in  his  wife's  tomb  in  some  distant  cemetery, 
leaving  a  certain  red-headed  Sir  Harry  to  reign  in  his  stead. 

"  I  don't  think  we  had  better  talk  any  more,"  observed 
Phillis,  somewhat  brusquely;  and  then  she  exchanged  meaning 
looks  with  Nan.  The  two  girls  were  somewhat  dismayed  at 
their  mother's  wan  looks:  her  feebleness  and  uncertainty  of 
speech,  the  very  vagueness  of  her  lamentations,  filled  them 
with  sad  forebodings  for  the  future.  How  were  they  to  leave 
her,  when  they  commenced  that  little  fight  with  the  world? 
She  bad  leaned  on  them  so  long  that  her  helplessness  had  be- 
come a  matter  of  babit. 

Nan  understood  her  sister's  warning  glance,  and  she  made 
no  further  allusion  to  Sir  Francis;  she  only  rose  v/ith  assumed 
briskness,  and  took  her  mother  in  charge. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  help  you  to  bed,  mammy  darling,*' 
she  said,  cheerfully.  "  Phillis  is  quite  right;  we  will  not  talk 
any  more  to-night;  we  shall  want  all  our  strength  for  to-mor- 
row. We  will  Just  say  our  prayers,  and  try  and  go  to  sleep, 
and  hope  that  things  may  turn  out  better  than  we  expect." 
And,  as  Mrs,  Challoner  was  too  utterly  spent  to  resist  this 
wise  counsel,  Nan  achieved  her  pious  mission  with  some  suc- 
cess. She  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  leaned  her  head  against 
her  mother's  pillow,  and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  53 

the  even  breathing  that  proved  that  the  sleeper  had  forgOttey 
her  troubles  for  a  little  while. 

"  Poor  dear  mother  I  how  exhausted  she  must  havebeea!" 
thought  Nau,  as  she  closed  the  door  softl}'.  She  was  far  too 
anxious  aud  wide  a^<»iie  herself  to  dream  of  retiring  to  rest. 
She  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  her  sisters'  room  dark  and 
empt}'  as  she  passed.  They  must  be  still  down-stairs,  talking 
over  things  in  the  fire-light;  they  were  as  little  inclined  for 
sleep  as  she  was.  Phillis's  carefully  decocted  tea  must  have 
stimulated  them  to  wakefulness. 

The  room  was  si  ill  bright  with  fire-light.  Dulce  was  curled 
up  in  her  mother's  chair,  and  had  evidently  been  indulging  in 
what  she  called  "  a  good  cry."  Phillis,  somber  aud  thought- 
fid,  was  pacing  the  roam,  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
head— a  favorite  attitude  of  hers  when  she  was  in  any  per- 
plexity. She  stopped  short  as  Kan  regarded  her  with  some 
astonishment  from  the  threshold. 

"  Oh,  come  in,  Kan;  it  will  be  such  a  relief  to  talk  to  a 
sensible  person.     Dulce  is  so  silly,  she  does  nothing  but  cr}'. " 

"1  can't  help  it,"  returned  Dulce,  with  another  sob; 
"  everything  is  so  horrible,  aud  Piiillis  will  say  such  dreadful 
things." 

"Poor  little  soul!"  said  Kan,  in  a  sympathetic  voice,  sit- 
ting down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  stroking  Dulce's  hair; 
"  it  is  very  hard  for  her  aud  for  us  all,"  with  a  pent-up  sigh. 

"  Of  course  it  is  hard,"  retorted  Phillis,  confronting  them 
rather  impatiently  from  the  hearth-rug;  "  it  is  bitterly  hard. 
But  it  is  not  worse  for  Dulce  than  for  the  rest  of  us.  Crying 
will  not  mend  matters,  aud  it  is  a  sheer  waste  of  tears.  As  1 
tell  her,  what  we  have  to  do  now  is  to  make  the  best  of  things, 
and  see  what  is  to  be  done  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  repeated  Nan,  meekly;  but  she  put  her 
arm  round  Dulce,  and  drew  her  head  against  her  shoulder. 
The  action  comforted  Dulce,  and  her  tears  soon  ceased  to 
flow. 

"  1  am  thinking  about  mother,"  went  on  Phillis,  pondering 
her  words  slowly  as  she  spoke;  "  she  does  look  so  ill  aud  weak. 
I  do  not  see  how  we  are  to  leave  her." 

Mrs,  Challoner's  moral  helplessness  and  dread  of  responsi- 
bility were  so  sacred  in  her  daughters'  eyes  that  they  rarely 
alluded  to  them  except  in  this  vague  fashion.  ,  For  years  they 
had  shielded  and  petted  her,  and  given  way  to  her  little  fads 
and  fancies,  until  she  had  developed  into  a  sort  of  gentle 
hypochondriac. 

"  Mother  can  not  bear  this;  we  always  keep  these  little 


54  KOT    LIKE    OTHKR    GIRLS. 

worries  from  lier,"  Nan  Lad  been  accustDnied  to  say;  and  tlie' 
others  had  followed  her  example. 

The  unspoken  thought  lay  heavy  upon  them  now.  How 
were  they  to  prevent  the  rough  winds  of  adversity  from  blow- 
ing too  roughly  upon  their  cherished  charge?  The  roof,  and 
perhaps  the  crust,  might  be  theirs;  but  how  were  they  to  con- 
trive that  she  should  not  miss  her  little  comforts?  They  would 
gladly  work;  but  how,  and  after  what  fashion? 

Phillis  was  the  first  to  plunge  into  the  unwelcome  topic,  for 
Nan  felt  almost  as  helpless  and  bewildered  as  Dulce. 

"We  must  go  into  the  thing  thoroughly,"  began  Piiillis, 
drawing  a  chair  opposite  to  her  sisters.  She  was  very  pale, 
but  her  eyes  had  a  certain  brightness  of  determination.  She 
looked  too  young  for  that  quiet  care-worn  look  that  had  come 
so  suddenly  to  her;  but  one  felt  she  could  be  equal  to  any 
emergency.  "  We  are  down-hearted,  of  course;  but  we  have 
plenty  of  time  for  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The  question  is, 
how  are  we  to  live?" 

"Just  so."  observed  Nan,  rather  dubiously;  and  Dulce 
gave  a  little  gasp. 

"  There  is  the  Friary  standing  empty;  and  there  is  the 
furniture,  and  there  will  be  about  fifty  pounds,  perhaps  less, 
when  everything  is  settled.  And  we  have  clothes  enough  to 
last  some  time,  and — "  here  Dulce  put  her  hands  together 
pleadingly,  but  Phillis  looked  at  her  severely,  and  went  on: 
"  Forty  or  fifty  pounds  will  soon  be  spent,  and  then  we  shall 
be  absolutely  penniless;  we  have  no  one  to  help  us.  Mother 
will  not  hear  of  writing  to  Uncle  Francis;  we  must  work  our- 
selves, or  starve." 

"  Couldn't  we  let  lodgings?"  hazarded  Dulce,  with  quaver- 
ing voiee;  but  Phillis  smiled  grimly. 

"  Let  lodgings  at  the  Friary!  why,  it  is  only  big  enough  to 
hold  us.  We  might  get  a  larger  house  in  Hadleigh;  but  no, 
it  would  be  ruinous  to  fail,  and  perhaps  we  should  not  make 
it  answer.  I  can  not  fancy  mother  living  in  the  basement 
story;  she  would  make  herself  wretched  over  it.  We  are  too 
young.     I  don't  think  that  would  answer,  Nan;  do  you?" 

Nan  replied  faintly  that  she  did  not  think  it  would.  The 
mere  proposition  took  her  breath  away.  What  would  Mr. 
Mayne  say  to  that?  Then  she  plucked  up  spirit  and  went 
into  the  question  vigorously. 

There  were  too  many  lodging-houses  in  Hadleigh  now;  it 
would  be  a  hazardous  speculation,  and  one  likely  to  fail;  they 
had  not  sufficient  furniture  for  such  a  purpose,  and  they  dare 
not  use  up  their  little  capital  too  quickly.     They  were  too 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIltLS.  55 

young,  too,  to  carry  ont  such  a  thing.  Nan  did  not  add 
"  and  too  pretty,"  though  iihe  colored  and  hesitated  here. 
Their  mother  could  not  help  them;  she  was  not  strong  enough 
for  house-work  or  cooking,  iihe  thought  that  plan  must  be 
given  up. 

"  We  might  be  daily  governesses,  and  live  at  home,"  sug- 
gested Dulce,  who  found  a  sort  of  relief  in  throwing  out  feelers 
in  every  direction.  Nan  brightened  up  visibly  at  this,  but 
Phillis's  moody  brow  did  not  relax  for  a  moment. 

"  That  would  be  nice,"  acquiesced  Nan,  "  and  then  mother 
would  not  find  the  day  so  long  if  we  came  home  in  the  even- 
ing; she  could  busy  herself  about  the  house,  and  we  could 
leave  her  little  things  to  do,  and  she  would  not  find  the  hours 
so  heavy.  1  like  that  idea  of  yours,  Dulce;  and  we  are  all  so 
fond  of  children." 

"  The  idea  is  as  nice  as  possible,"  replied  Phillis,  with  an 
ominous  stress  on  the  noun,  "if  we  couli  only  make  it  prac- 
ticable." 

"  Phil  is  going  to  find  fault,"  pouted  Dulce,  who  knew 
every  inflection  of  Phillis's  voice. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind!"  she  retorted,  briskly. 
*'  Nan  is  quite  right;  we  all  dote  on  children.  1  should  dear- 
ly like  to  be  a  governess  myself;  it  would  be  more  play  than 
work;  but  I  am  only  wondering  who  would  engage  us." 

"  Who? — oh,  anybody!"  returned  Nan,  feeling  puzzled  by 
the  smothered  satire  of  Phillis's  speech.  "  Of  course  we  are 
not  certificated,  and  I  for  one  could  only  leach  young  chil- 
dren; but — "  here  Phillis  interrupted  her. 

*'  Don't  think  me  horrid  if  I  ask  you  and  Dulce  some  ques- 
tions, but  do — do  answer  me  just  as  though  I  were  going 
through  the  catechism;  we  are  only  girls,  but  we  must  sift 
the  whole  thing  thoroughly.  Are  we  fit  for  governesses?  what 
can  you  and  I  and  Dulce  teach?" 

"  Oh,  anything!"  returned  Nan,  still  more  vaguely. 

"  My  dear  Nanny,  anything  won't  do.-  Come,  I  am  really 
in  earnest;  I  mean  to  catechise  you  both  thoroughl}'." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Nan,  in  a  resigned  voice;  but  Dulce 
looked  a  little  frightened.  As  for  Phillis,  she  sat  erect,  with 
her  finger  pointed  at  them  in  a  severely  ominous  fashion. 

"  How  about  history.  Nan?  I  thought  you  could  never  re- 
member dales;  you  used  to  jumble  facts  in  the  most  marvel- 
ous manner.  I  remember  your  insisting  that  Anne  of  Cleves 
was  Louis  NIL 's  second  wife;  and  you  shocked  Miss  Martin 
dreadfully  by  declaring  that  one  of  Marlborough's  victories 
was  fought  at  Cressy." 


66  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


<< 


I  never  could  remember  historical  facts/'  returned  Nan, 
litimbiy.  "  Dulce  always  did  better  than  1;  and  so  did  you, 
Piiillis.  When  I  teach  the  children  I  can  have  the  book  be- 
fore me."  But  Phillis  only  shook  her  head  at  this,  and 
went  on: 

"  Dulce  was  a  shade  better,  but  1  don't  believe  she  could 
lell  me  the  names  of  the  English  sovereigns  in  proper 
sequence;"  but  Dulce  disdained  to  answer.  "  You  were  bet- 
ter at  arithmetic,  Nan.  Dulce  never  got  through  her  rule  of 
three;  but  you  were  not  very  advanced  even  at  that.  You 
write  a  pretty  hand,  and  you  used  to  talk  French  very 
fluently." 

"Oh,  Fve  forgotten  my  French!"  exclaimed  Nan,  in  a 
panic-stricken  voii^e.  "  Dulce,  don't  you  remember  wc  quite 
settled  to  talk  in  French  over  our  work  three  times  a  week, 
and  we  have  alwa3's  forgotten  it;  and  we  were  reading  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne's  '  Letters  '  together,  and.  1  found  the  book 
the  other  day  quite  covered  with  dust." 

"  I  hate  French,"  returned  Dulce,  rebelliously.  "  I  began 
German  with  Phillis  and  like  it  much  better." 

"  True,  but  we  are  only  beginners,"  returned  the  remorse- 
less Piiillis;  "  it  was  very  nice,  of  course,  and  the  '  Tau- 
genichts '  was  delicious;  but  think  how  many  words  in  every 
sentence  you  hud  to  hunt  out  in  the  dictionary.  I  am  glad 
you  feel  so  competent,  Dulce;  but  1  could  not  teach  German 
myself,  or  French  either.  I  don't  remember  enough  of  the 
grammar;  and  1  do  not  believe  Nan  does  either,  though  she 
used  to  chatter  so  to  Miss  Martin." 

"  Did  I  not  say  she  would  pick  our  idea  to  pieces?"  re- 
turned Dulce,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  dear  little  sister,  don't  look  so  dreadfully  pathetic.  1 
am  quite  as  disheartened  and  disappointed  as  you  are.  Nan 
says  she  has  forgotten  her  French,  and  she  will  have  to  teach 
histoi-y  with  an  open  book  before  her;  we  none  of  us  draw — 
no,  Dulce,  please  let  me  finish  our  scanty  stock  of  accomplish- 
ments. 1  only  know  my  notes — for  no  one  cares  to  hear  me 
lumber  through  my  pieces — and  I  sing  at  church.  You  have 
the  svveetest  voice,  Dulce,  but  it  is  not  trained;  and  I  can  not 
compliment  you  oij  your  playing.  Nan  sings  and  plays  very 
niotiiy,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  her;  but  I  am  afraid 
she  knows  little  about  the  theory  of  music,  harmony,  and 
thorough  bass;  you  never  did  anything  in  that  way,  did  you, 
Nan?" 

Nan  shook  her  head  sadly.  She  was  too  discomfited  for 
speech.    Phillis  looked  at  them  both  thoughtfully;  her  trouble 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  5^ 

was  very  real,  but  slie  could  not  help  a  triumphant  inflection 
in  her  voice. 

"  Dear  Nan,  please  do  not  look  so  unhappy.  Dulce/you 
shall  not  begin  to  cry  again.  Don't  you  remember  what 
mother  was  reading  to  us  the  other  day  about  the  country  be- 
ing flooded  with  incompetent  governesses — half-educated  "girls 
turned  loose  on  the  world  to  earn  their  living?  I  can  re- 
member one  sentence  of  that  writer,  word  for  word:  'The 
standard  of  education  is  so  high  at  the  present  day,  and  the 
number  of  certificated  reliable  teachers  so  much  increased, 
that  we  can  afford  to  discourage  the  crude  efforts  to  teach,  or 
un-teach,  our  children/  And  then  he  goes  on  to  ask,  '  What 
has  become  of  womanly  conscientiousness,  when  such  igno- 
rance presses  forward  to  assume  such  sacred  responsibilities? 
Better  the  competent  nurse  than  the  incompetent  governess.' 
'  Why  do  not  these  girls,'  he  asks,  '  who,  through  their  own 
fault  or  the  fault  of  circumstances,  are  not  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced to  educate  others — why  do  tliey  not  rather  discharge 
the  exquisitely  feminine  duties  of  the  nursery?  What  an  ad- 
vantage to  parents  to  have  their  little  ones  brought  into  th& 
earliest  contact  with  refined  speech  and  cultivated  manners — 
their  infant  ears  not  inoculated  by  barbarous  English?'  "  but 
here  Phil  lis  was  arrested  in  her  torrent  of  reflected  wisdom  by 
an  impatient  exclamation  from  Dulce. 

"  Oh,  Nan,  do  ask  her  to  be  quiet!  She  never  stops  when 
she  once  begins.  How  can  we  listen  to  such  rubbish,  when 
we  are  so  wretched?  You  may  talk  for  hours,  Phil,  but  I 
never,  never  will  be  a  nurse!"  And  Dulce  hid  her  face  on 
Nan's  shoulder  in  such  undisguised  distress  that  her  sisters  had 
much  ado  to  comfort  her. 

CHAPTER  Vni. 

*'  WE   SHOULD   HAVE   TO  CARRY   PARCELS." 

It  was  hard  work  to  tranquilize  Dulce. 

"  1  never,  never  will  be  a  nurse!"  she  sobbed  out  at  inter- 
vals. 

"  You  little  goose,  who  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing?  Why 
will  you  misunderstand  me  so?"  siglied  Phillis,  almost  in  de- 
spair at  her  sister's  impracticability.  "  I  am  only  trying  to 
prove  to  you  and  Nan  that  we  are  not  fit  for  governesses." 

"  No,  indeed;  I  fear  you  are  right  there,"  replied  poor 
Nan,  who  had  never  realized  her  deficiencies  before.  They 
were  all  bright,  taking  girls,  with  plenty  to  say  for  them- 
selves, lady-like  and  well  bred.     Who  would  have  thought 


58  i^OT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


that,  when  weigher]  in  the  balance,  they  would  have  "been 
found  so  wanting?  "  1  always  knew  I  was  a  very  stupid  per- 
soif;  but  you  are  different — you  are  so  clever,  Phil!" 

"  Nonsense,  Nanny!  it  is  a  sort  of  cleverness  for  which 
there  is  no  market.  I  am  fond  of  reading.  I  remember 
things,  and  do  a  great  deal  of  thinking;  but  1  am  destitute  of 
accomplishments;  my  knowledge  of  languages  is  purely  super- 
ficial. We  are  equal  to  other  girls— just  young  ladies,  and 
nothing  more;  but  when  it  comes  to  earning  our  bread  and 
butter — "  Here  Phillis  paused,  and  threw  out  her  hands 
with  a  little  gesture  of  despair. 

"  But  you  work  so  beautifully;  and  so  does  Nan,"  inter- 
rupted Dulce,  who  was  a  little  comforted,  now  she  knew  Phil- 
lis had  no  prospective  nurse-maid  theory  in  view.  "I  am 
good  at  it  myself,"  she  continued,  modestly,  feeling  tliat,  in 
this  case,  self-praise  was  allowable.  "We  might  be  compan- 
ions— some  nice  old  lady  who  wants  her  caps  made,  and  re- 
quires some  one  to  read  to  her,"  faltered  Dulce,  with  her 
child-like  pleading  look. 

Nan  gave  her  a  little  hug;  but  she  left  the  answer  to  Phillis, 
who  went  at  once  into  a  brown  study,  and  only  woke  up  after 
a  long  interval. 

"  I  am  looking  at  it  all  round,"  she  said,  when  Nan  at  last 
pressed  for  her  opinion;  "  it  is  not  a  bad  idea.  I  think  it  very 
possible  that  either  you  or  I,  Nan — or  both,  perhaps— might 
find  something  in  that  line  to  suit  us.  There  are  old  ladies 
everywhere,  and  some  of  them  are  rich  and  lonely  and  want 
companions." 

"  You  have  forgotten  me!"  exclaimed  Dulce,  with  natural 
jealousy,  and  a  dislike  to  be  overlooked,  inherent  in  most 
young  people.  "  And  it  is  1  who  have  always  made  mammy's 
caps;  and  you  know  how  Laly  Pitzroy  praised  the  last  one." 

"  Yes,  yes;  we  know  all  that,"  returned  Phillis,  impatient- 
ly. "  You  are  as  clever  as  possible  with  your  fingers;  but  one 
of  us  must  stop  with  mother,  and  you  are  the  youngest,  Dulce; 
that  is  what  I  meant  by  looking  at  it  all  round,  if  Nan  and 
1  were  away,  it  would  never  do  for  you  and  mother  to  live  at 
the  Friary.  We  could  not  afford  a  servant,  and  we  should 
want  the  forty  pounds  a  year  to  pay  for  bare  necessaries;  for 
our  salary  would  not  be  very  great.  You  would  have  to  live 
in  lodgings — two  little  rooms,  that  is  all;  and  even  then  I  am 
afraid  you  and  mother  would  be  dreadfully  pinched,  for  we 
should  have  to  dress  ourselves  properly  in  other  people's 
houses," 

"  Oh,  Phillis,  that  would  not  do  at  all!"  exclaimed  Nan,  iq 


ITOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  59 

a  voice  of  despair.  She  was  very  pale  by  this  time;  full  real- 
ization of  all  this  trouble  was  coming  to  her,  as  it  had  come 
to  Phillis.  "  What  shall  we  do?  Who  will  help  us  to  any  de- 
cision? How  are  you  and  I  to  go  away  and  live  luxuriously 
in  other  people's  houses,  and  leave  mother  atid.  Dulce  piaing 
in  two  shabby  little  rooms,  with  nothing  to  do,  and  perhaps 
not  enough  to  eat,  and  mother  fretting  herself  ill,  and  Dulce 
losing  her  bloom?  I  could  not  rest;  I  could  not  sleep  for 
thinking  of  it.  I  would  rather  take  in  plain  needle-work,  and 
live  on  dry  bread,  if  we  could  only  be  together,  and  help  each 
other. '' 

"  Sa  would  1,"  returned  Phillis,  in  an  odd,  muffled  voice. 

"  And  I  too,"  rather  hesitatingly  from  Dulce. 

"  If  we  could  only  live  at  the  Friary,  and  have  Dorothy  to 
do  all  the  rough  work,"  sighed  Kan,  with  a  sudden  yearning 
toward  even  that  very  shabby  ark  of  refuge;  "  if  we  could 
only  be  together,  and  see  each  other  every  day,  things  would 
not  be  quite  sa  dreadful." 

*'  1  am  quite  of  your  opinion,"  was  Phillis's  curt  observa- 
tion; but  there  was  a  sudden  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"  1  have  heard  of  ladies  working  for  fancy-shops;  do  you 
think  we  could  do  something  of  that  kind?"  asked  Nan,  anx- 
iously. "  Even  mother  could  help  us  in  that;  and  Dulce  does 
work  so  beautifully.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  we  have  no  ac- 
complishments," went  on  ISTan,  wilh  a  pathetic  little  laugh, 
'*  but  you  know  that  no  other  girls  work  as  we  do.  We  have 
always  made  our  own  dresses.  And  Lady  Fitzroy  asked  me 
once  who  was  our  dress-maker,  because  she  fitted  us  so  ex- 
quisitely; and  1  was  so  proud  of  telling  her  that  we  always  did 
our  own,  wilh  Dorothy  co  help — " 

"  Nan,"  interrupted  Phillis,  eagerly,  and  there  was  a  great 
softness  in  her  whole  mien,  and  her  eyes  were  glistening — 
"  dear  Nan,  do  you  love  us  all  so  that  you  could  give  up  the 
whole  vi^orld  for  our  sakes — for  the  sake  of  living  together,  I 
mean?" 

Nan  hesitated.  Did  the  whole  world  involve  Dick,  and 
could  even  her  love  for  her  sister  induce  her  voluntarily  to 
give  him  up?  Phillis,  who  was  quick-witLed,  read  the  doubt 
in  a  moment,  and  hastened  to  qualify  her  words: 

"  The  outside  world,  I  mean — mere  conventional  acquaint- 
ances, not  friends.  Do  you  think  you  could  bear  to  set  society 
at  defiance,  to  submit  to  be  sent  to  Coventry  for  our  sakes;  to 
do  without  it,  in  fact  to  live  in  a  little  world  of  our  own  and 
make  ourselves  happy  in  it?" 

"  Ah,  Phillis,  you  are  so  clever,  and  1  don't  understand 


60  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

you/^  faltered  Nan.  It  was  not  Dick  she  was  to  give  up, 
but  what  could  Phillis  tuean?  "  We  are  all  fond  of  society; 
we  are  like  other  girls,  1  suppose.  But  if  we  are  to  be  poor 
and  work  for  our  living,  1  dare  say  people  will  give  us  up." 

"  I  am  not  meaning  that,"  returned  her  sister,  earnestly; 
*'  it  is  something  far  harder,  something  far  more  difficult, 
something  that  will  be  a  great  sacrifice  and  cost  ne  all  tre- 
mendous efforts.  But  if  we  are  to  keep  a  roof  over  our  heads, 
if  we  are  to  live  together  in  anything  like  comfort,  I  don't  see 
what  else  we  can  do,  unless  we  go  out  as  companions  and 
leave  mother  and  Dulce  in  lodgings.'* 

"  Oh,  no,  no;  pray  don't  leave  us!"  implored  Dulce,  feel- 
ing that  all  her  strength  and  comfort  lay  near  Nan. 

"  1  will  not  leave  you,  dear,  if  1  can  possibly  help  it,"  re- 
turned Nan,  gently.  "  Tell  us  what  you  mean,  Phillis,  for  I 
see  you  have  some  sort  of  plan  in  your  head.  There  is  noth- 
ing—nothing," she  continued,  more  firmly,  "  that  1  would 
not  do  to  make  mother  and  Dulce  happy.  Speak  out;  you 
are  half  afraid  that  1  shall  prove  a  coward,  but  you  shall  see." 

"  Dear  Nan,  no;  you  are  as  brave  as  possible.  I  am  rather 
a  coward  myself.  Yes;  1  have  a  plan;  but  you  have  yourself 
put  it  into  my  head  by  saying  what  you  did  about  Lady  Fitz- 
roy." 

"  About  Lady  Fitzroy?" 

"  Yes;  your  telling  her  about  our  making  our  own  dresses. 
Nan,  you  are  right;  needle-work  is  our  forte;  nothing  is  a 
trouble  to  us.  Few  girls  have  such  clever  fingers,  1  believe; 
and  then  you  and  Dulce  have  such  taste.  Mrs.  Paine  once 
told  me  that  we  were  the  best-dressed  girls  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  she  wished  Carrie  looked  half  as  well.  1  am  telling 
you  this,  not  from  vanity,  but  because  I  do  believe  we  can 
turn  our  one  talent  to  account.  We  should  be  miserable  gov- 
ernesses; we  do  not  want  to  separate  and  seek  situations  as 
lady  helps  or  companions;  we  do  not  mean  to  fail  in  letting 
lodgings;  but  if  we  do  not  succeed  as  good  dress-makers,  never 
believe  me  again." 

"  Dress-makers!"  almost  shrieked  Dulce.  But  Nan,  who 
had  expressed  herself  willing  to  take  in  plain  needle-work, 
only  looked  at  her  sister  with  mute  gravity;  her  httle  world 
was  turned  so  completely  upside  down,  everything  was  so  un- 
real, that  nothing  at  this"  moment  could  have  surprised  her. 

"Dress-makers!"  she  repeated,  vaguely. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Phillis,  still  more  eagerly.  The  in- 
spiration had  come  to  her  in  a  moment,  full-fledged  and  grown 
up,  like  Minerva  from  the  head  of  J  upiter.     J  ust  from  those 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  61 

chance  words  of  Nan's  she  had  grasped  the  whole  thing  in  a 
monieut.  Now,  indeed,  she  felt  that  she  was  clever;  here  at 
least  was  something  striking  and  original;  she  took  no  notice 
of  Dulce's  shocked  exclamation;  she  fixed  her  eyes  solemnly 
on  Nan.  "  Yes,  yes;  what  does  it  matter  what  the  outside 
world  says?  We  are  not  like  other  girls;  we  never  were;  peo- 
l)le  always  said  we  were  so  original.  Necessity  strikes  out 
strange  paths  sometimes.  We  could  not  do  such  a  thing 
here;  no,  no,  1  never  could  submit  to  that  myself,"  as  Nan 
involuntarily  shuddered;  "but  at  lladleigh,  where  no  one 
knows  us,  where  we  shall  be  among  strangers.  And  then, 
you  see.  Miss  Monks  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  what  does  she  mean?"  cried  Dulce, 
despairingly;  "  and  what  do  we  care  about  Miss  Monks,  if  the 
creature  be  dead,  or  about  Miss  Anybody,  if  we  have  got  to 
do  such  dreadful  things?" 

"  My  dear,"  returned  Phillis,  with  compassionate  irony, 
"if  we  had  to  depend  upon  you  for  ideas — "  and  here  she 
made  an  eloquent  pause,  "  Our  last  tenant  for  the  Friary 
was  Miss  Monks,  and  Miss  Monks  was  a  dress-maker;  and, 
though  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  it,  it  does  seem  a  direct 
leading  of  Providence,  putting  such  a  thought  into  my  head." 

"  I  am  afraid  Dulce  and  I  are  very  slow  and  stupid,"  re- 
turned Nan,  putting  her  hair  rather  wearily  from  her  face;  her 
pretty  color  had  quite  faded  during  the  last  half  hour.  "  I 
think  if  you  should  tell  us  plainly  exactly  what  you  mean, 
Phillis,  we  should  be  able  to  understand  everything  better." 

"  My  notion  is  this,"  began  Phillis,  slowly;  "  remember,  I 
have  not  thought  it  quite  out,  but  1  will  give  you  my  ideas 
just  as  they  occur  to  me.  We  will  not  say  anything  to  moth- 
er just  yet,  until  we  have  thoroughly  digested  our  plan.  You 
and  I,  Nan,  will  run  down  to  the  Friary  and  reconnoiter  the 
place,  judge  of  its  capabilities,  an'd  so  forth;  and  when  we 
come  back  we  will  hold  a  family  council." 

"  That  will  be  best,"  agreed  Nan,  who  remembered,  with 
sudden  feelings  of  relief  that  Dick  and  his  belongings  would 
be  safe  in  thj  Engadine  by  that  time.  "  But,  Phillis,  do  you 
really  and  truly  believe  that  we  could  carry  out  such  a 
scheme?" 

"  Why  not?"  was  the  bold  answer.  "If  we  can  work  for 
ourselves,  we  can  for  other  people.  1  have  a  presentiment 
that  we  shall  achieve  a  striking  success.  We  will  make  the 
old  Friary  as  comfortable  as  possible,"  she  continued,  cheer- 
fully. "  The  good  folk  of  lladleigh  will  be  rather  surprised 
when  they  see  our  pretty  rooms.      No  horse-hair  sofa;  uq 


62  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

crochet  antimacassars  or  hideuus  wax  flowers;  none  of  the 
usual  stock-in-trade.  Dorothy  will  manage  the  house  for  us; 
and  we  will  all  sit  and  work  together,  and  mother  will  help 
us,  and  read  to  us.  Aren't  you  glad,  Nan,  that  we  all  saved 
up  for  that  splendid  sewing-machine?" 

"  I  do  believe  there  is  something,  after  all,  in  what  you 
say,"  was  Nan's  response;  but  Dulce  was  not  so  easily  won 
over. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we' shall  put  up  a  brass  plate  on 
the  door,  with  '  Challoner,  Dress-maker,'  on  it?"  she  ob- 
served, indignantly.  A  red  glow  mounted  to  Nan's  forehead; 
and  even  Phillis  looked  disconcerted. 

'"  I  never  thought  of  that;  well,  perhaps  not.  We  might 
.  advertise  at  the  Library,  or  put  cards  in  the  shops.  1  do  not 
think  mother  would  ever  cross  the  threshold  if  she  saw  a  brass 
plate." 

"  No,  no;  I  could  not  bear  that,"  said  Nan,  faintly.  A 
dim  vision  of  Diuk  standing  at  the  gate,  ruefully  contemplat- 
inor  thoir  name — her  name  —  in  juxtaposition  with  "dress- 
maker," crossed  her  mind  directly. 

"  But  we  should  have  to  carry  parcels,  and  stand  in  people's 
halls,  and  perhaps  fit  Mrs.  Squalls,  the  grocer's  wife — that  fat 
old  thing,  you  know.  How  would  you  like  to  make  a  dress 
for  Mrs.  Squails,  Phil?"  asked  Dulce,  with  the  malevolent 
desire  of  making  Phillis  as  uncomfortable  as  possible;  but 
Phillis,  who  had  rallied  from  her  momentary  discomfiture, 
was  not  to  be  again  worsted. 

"  Dulce,  you  talk  like  a  child;  you  are  really  a  very  silly 
little  thing.  Do  you  think  any  work  can  degrade  us,  or  that 
we  shall  not  be  as  much  gentlewomen  at  Hadleigh  as  we  are 
here?" 

"  But  the  parcels?"  persisted  Dulce. 

"1  do  not  intend  to  carry  any,"  was  the  imperturbable  re- 
l)ly.  "Dorothy  will  do  that;  or  we  will  hire  a  boy.  As  for 
waiting  in  halls,  I  don't  think  any  one  will  ask  me  to  do  that, 
as  I  should  desire  to  be  shown  into  a  room  at  once;  and  as  for 
Mrs.  Squails,  if  the  poor  old  woman  honors  me  with  her  cus- 
tom, 1  will  turn  her  out  a  gown  that  shall  be  the  envy  of  Had- 
leigh." 

Dulce  did  not  answer  this,  but  the  droop  of  her  lip  was  pite- 
ous; it  melted  Phillis  at  once, 

"  Oh,  do  cheer  up,  you  silly  girl!"  she  saia,  svith  a  coaxing 
face.  "  What  is  the  good  of  making  ourselves  more  misera- 
ble than  we  need?     If  you  prefer  the  two  little  rooms  with 


sot  Like  other  girls.  (53 

mother,  say  so;  and  Nau  and  I  will  look  out  for  old  ladies  at 


oiice." 


"  Xo,  no!  Oh,  pray,  don't  leave  me!"  still  more  pite- 
ously. 

"  Well,  what  will  you  have  us  do?  we  can  not  starve;  and 
we  don't  mean  to  beg.  Pluck  up  a  little  spirit,  Dulce;  see 
how  good  Kan  is!  You  have  no  idea  how  comfortable  we 
shoiihl  be!"  she  went  on,  with  judicious  word-painting. 
"  We  should  all  be  together— that  is  the  great  thing.  Then 
\V8  could  talk  over  our  work;  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  we 
felt  dreary,  mother  could  read  some  interesting  novel  to  us," 
a  tremendous  sigh  from  Xan  at  this  point. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  afternoons  at  Glen  Cottage — tennis, 
and  five-o'clock  tea,  and  the  company  of  their  young  friends! 
Phillis  understood  the  sigh,  and  hurried  on. 

"  It  will  not  be  always  work.  We  will  have  long  country 
walks  in  the  evening;  and  then  there  will  be  the  garden  and 
the  sea-share.  Of  course  we  must  have  exercise  and  recrea- 
tion. 1  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to  do  without  society,  for  no 
one  will  visit  ladies  under  such  circumstances;  but  I  would 
rather  do  without  people  than  without  each  other,  and  so 
would  Xan." 

"  Yes,  indeed!"  broke  in  Xan;  and  now  the  tears  were  in 
lier  eyes. 

Dulce  grew  suddenly  ashamed  of  herself.  She  got  up  in  a 
little  fiurcy,  and  kissed  them  both. 

"  1  was  very  naughty;  but  1  did  not  mean  to  be  unkincl. 
1  would  rather  carry  parcels,  and  stand  in  halls — yes,  and 
even  make  gowns  for  Mrs.  Squalls — than  lose  you  both.  I 
mil  be  good.  I  will  not  worry  you  any  more,  Phil,  with  my 
nonsense;  and  I  will  work;  you  will  see  how  1  will  work," 
fiuidhed  Dulce,  breathlessly. 

'"  There's  a  darling!"  said  Xan;  and  then  she  added,  in  a 
tired  voice:  "  But  it  is  two  o'clock;  and  Dick  is  coming  this 
morning  to  say  good-bye;  and  I  want  to  ask  you  both  particu- 
larly not  to  say  a  word  to  him  about  this.  Let  him  go  away 
and  enjoy  himself,  and  think  we  are  going  on  as  usual;  it 
would  spoil  his  holiday;  and  there  is  always  time  enough  for 
bad  news,"  went  on  Xan,  with  a  little  tremble  of  her  lip. 

"Dear  Xan,  we  understand,"  returned  Phillis,  gently; 
"  and  you  are  right,  as  you  always  are.  And  now  to  bed — to 
bed,"  she  continued,  in  a  voice  of  enforced  cheerfulness;  and 
then  they  kissed  each  other  very  quietly  and  solemnly,  and 
crept  up  as  noiselessly  as  possible  to  their  rooms. 

Phillis  and  Dulce  shared  the  same  room;  but  Xan  had  ^ 


64  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

little  cluuiiber  to  herself  very  near  her  raother^s;  a  door  con- 
nected the  two  rooms.  Kaii  closed  this  carefully  wlien  she 
had  ascertaiued  that  Mrs.  Challouer  was  still  sleeping,  aud 
then  sat  down  by  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the  gray 
glimmering  light  that  preceded  the  dawn. 

Sleep!  How  could  she  sleep  with  all  these  thoughts  surging 
through  her  mind,  aud  knowing:  that  in  a  few  hours  Dick 
would  come  and  say  good-bye?  And  here  Nan  broke  down,  and 
had  such  a  fit  of  crying  as  she  had  not  had  since  her  father 
died— nervous,  uncontrollable  tears,  that  it  was  useless  to  stem 
in  her  tired,  overwrought  state. 

They  exhausted  her,  and  disposed  her  for  sleep.  She  was 
so  chilled  and  weary  that  she  was  glad  to  lie  down  in  bed  at 
last  aud  close  her  eyes;  and  she  had  scarcely  done  so  before 
drowsiness  crept  over  her,  and  she  knew  no  more  until  she 
found  the  sunshine  flooding  her  little  room,  and  Dorothy  stancl- 
iug  by  her  bed,  asking  rather  crossly  why  no  one  seemed  dis- 
posed'to  wake  this  beautiful  morning. 

",  Am  I  late?  Oh,  I  hope  1  am  not  late!"  exclaimed  Kan, 
springing  up  in  a  moment.  She  dressed  herself  in  quite  a 
flurry,  for  fear  that  she  should  keep  any  one  waiting.  It  was 
only  at  the  last  moment  she  remembered  the  outburst  of  the 
previous  night,  and  wondered  with  some  dismay  what  Dick 
would  think  of  her  pale  cheeks  and  the  reddened  lines  round 
her  eyes,  and  only  hoped  that  he  would  not  attribute  them  to 
his  goir'g  away.  Nau  was  only  just  in  time,  for  as  she  entered 
the  breakfast-room  Dick  came  through  the  veranda  and  put  in 
his  head  at  the  window. 

"  Not  at  breakfast  yet!  and  where  are  the  others?"  he  asked, 
in  some  surprise,  for  the  Challoners  were  early  people,  and 
very  regular  in  their  habits. 

"  We  sat  up  rather  late  last  night,  talking,"  returned  Nan, 
giving  him  her  hand  without  looking  at  him,  and  yet  Dick 
showed  to  advantage  this  morning  in  his  new  tweed  traveling- 
suit. 

"  Well,  1  have  only  got  ten  minutes.  1  managed  to  give 
the  pater  the  slip;  he%vill  bo  coming  after  me,  1  believe,  if  1 
stay  longer.  This  is  first-rate,  having  you  all  to  myself  this 
last  morning.  But  what's  up,  Nan?  you  don't  seem  quite  up  to 
the  mark.  You  are  palish,  you  know,  and—"  here  Dick 
paused  in  pained  embarrassment.  Were  those  traces  of  tears? 
had  Nan  really  been  crying?  was  she  sorry  about  his  going 
away?     And  now  there  was  an  odd  lump  in  Dick's  throat. 

Nan  understood  the  pause,  and  got  frightened. 

"  It  is  nothing.     I  have  a  slight  headache;  there  was  a  httle 


KOT    LIKE    OTHEB    GIKLS.  65 

domestic  worry  that  wanted  putting  to  rights,"  stammered 
Nan;  "  it  worried  me,  for  I  am  stupid  at  such  things,  you 
know." 

She  was  explaining  herself  somewhat  lamely,  and  to  no  pur- 
pose, for  Dick  did  not  believe  her  in  the  least.  "  Domestic 
worry!"  as  though  she  cared  for  such  rubbish  as  that;  as 
though  any  amount  could  make  her  cry — her,  his  bright, 
high-spirited  Xaul  Xo;  she  had  been  fretting  about  their 
long  separation,  and  his  father's  unkinduess,  and.  the  difficul- 
ties ahead  of  them. 

"  1  want  you  to  give  me  a  rose,"  he  said,  suddenly,  a  propos 
of  nothing,  as  it  seemed;  but,  looking  up,  Xan  caught  a  wist- 
ful gleam  in  his  eyes,  and  hesitated.  IVas  it  not  Dick  who  had 
told  her  that  anecdote  about  the  queen,  or  was  it  Lothair.^ 
and  did  not  a  certain  meaning  attach  to  this  gift?  Dick  was 
forever  picking  roses  for  her;  but  he  had  never  given  her  one, 
except  with  that  meaning  look  on  his  face. 

"  You  are  hesitating,"  he  said,  reproachfully;  "  and  on  my 
last  morning,  when  we  shall  not  see  each  other  for  months." 
And  Nan  moved  toward  the  veranda  slowly,  and  gathered  a 
crimson  one  without  a  word,  and  put  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  quite  quietly;  but  he  detained  the 
hand  as  well  as  the  rose  for  a  moment.  "  One  day  I  will  show 
you  this  again,  and  tell  you  what  it  means  if  you  do  not  know; 
and  then  we  shall  see,  ah.  Nan,  my — "  He  paused  as  Phil- 
lis's  step  entered  the  room,  and  said,  hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Good-bye;  I  will  not  go  in  again.  I  don't  want  to  see  any 
of  them,  only  you — only  you.  Good-bye;  take  care  of  your- 
self for  my  sake.  Nan."  And  Dick  looked  at  her  wistfully, 
and  dropped  her  hand. 

"  Has  he  gone?"  asked  Phillis,  looking  up  in  surprise  as 
her  sister  came  through  the  open  window;  "  has  he  gone  with- 
out finding  anything  out?' 

"  Yes,  he  has  gone,  and  he  does  not  know  anything,"  re- 
plied Nan,  in  a  subdued  voice,  as  she  seated  herself  behind  the 
urn.  It  was  over  now,  and  she  was  ready  for  anything. 
"  Take  care  of  yourself  for  my  sake.  Nan!" — that  was  ring- 
ing in  her  ears;  but  she  had  not  said  a  word  in  reply.  Only 
the  rose  lay  in  his  hand— her  parting  gift,  and  perhaps  her 
parting  pledge. 


66  ^OT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A   LONG  DAY. 

Nan  never  recalled  the  memory  of  that  "  long  gray  day," 
as  she  inwardly  termed  it,  without  a  shiver  of  discomfort. 

Never  but  once  m  her  bright  young  life  had  she  known  such 
a  day,  and  that  was  when  her  dead  father  lay  in  the  darkened 
house,  and  her  widowed  mother  had  crept  weeping  into  her 
arms  as  to  her  only  remaining  refuge;  but  that  stretched  so 
far  back  into  the  past  that  it  had  grown  into  a  vague  remem- 
brance. 

It  was  not  only  Dick  that  was  gone,  though  the  pain  of  that 
separation  was  far  greater  than  she  would  have  believed  jjossi- 
ble,  but  a  moral  earthquake  had  shattered  their  little  world, 
involving  them  in  utter  chaos. 

It  was  only  yesterday  that  she  was  singing  ballads  in  the 
Longmead  drawing-room — only  yesterday;  but  to-day  every- 
thing was  changed.  The  sun  shone,  the  birds  sung,  every  one 
eat  and  drank  and  moved  about  as  usual.  Nan  talked  and 
smiled,  and  no  stranger  would  have  guessed  that  much  was 
amiss;  nevertheless,  a  weight  lay  heavy  on  her  spirits,  and 
Nan  knew  in  her  secret  heart  that  she  could  never  be  again 
the  same  light-hearted,  easy-going  creature  that  she  was  yes- 
terday. 

Later  on  the  sisters  confessed  to  each  other  that  the  day 
had  been  perfectly  interminable;  the  hours  dragged  on  slowly, 
the  sun  seemed  as  though  it  never  meant  to  set;  and  to  add 
to  their  trouble,  their  mother  looked  so  ill  when  she  came 
down-stairs,  wrapped  in  her  soft  white  shawl  in  spite  of  the 
heat,  that  Nan  thought  of  sending  for  a  doctor,  and  only  re- 
frained at  the  remembrance  that  they  had  no  right  to  such 
luxuries  now  except  in  cases  of  necessity. 

Then  Dorothy  was  in  one  of  her  impracticable  moods,  throw- 
ing cold  water  on  all  her  young  mistress's  suggestions,  and 
doing  her  best  to  disarrange  the  domestic  machinery.  Dor- 
othy suspected  a  m5^stery  somewhere;  her  young  ladies  had  sat 
up  half  the  night,  and  looked  pale  and  owlish  in  the  morning. 
If  they  choose  to  keep  her  in  the  dark  and  not  take  her  into 
their  confidence,  it  was  their  affair;  but  she  meant  to  show 
them  what  she  thought  of  their  conduct.  So  she  contradicted 
and  snapped,  until  Nan  told  her  wearily  that  she  was  a  dis- 
agreeable old  thing,  and  left  her  and  Susan  to  do  as  they  liked. 
She  knew  Mr.  Trinder  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  dining-room, 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  67 

and,  as  Mrs.  Challoner  was  not  well  enough  to  see  him,  she 
and  PInllis  must  entertain  him. 

He  had  slept  at  a  friend's  house  a  few  miles  from  Oldfield, 
and  was  to  lunch  at  Glen  Cottage  and  take  the  afternoon  train 
to  London. 

He  was  not  sorry  when  he  heard  that  Mrs.  Challoner  was 
too  indisposed  to  receive  him.  In  spite  of  his  polite  expres- 
sions of  regret,  he  had  found  the  poor  lady  terribly  trying  on 
tlie  previous  evening.  8he  was  a  bad  manager,  and  had  mud- 
dled her  affairs,  and  siie  did  not  seem  to  understand  half  of 
what  he  told  her;  and  her  tears  and  lamentations  when  she 
realized  the  truth  had  been  too  much  for  the  soft-hearted  old 
bachelor,  though  people  did  call  him  a  woman-hater. 

"  But  I  never  could  bear  to  see  a  woman  cry;  it  is  as  bad 
as  watuhing  an  animal  in  pain,"  he  half  growled  as  he  drew 
out  his  red  pocket-handkerchief  and  used  it  rather  noisily. 

It  was  easier  work  to  explain  everything  to  these  two  bright, 
sensible  girls.  Phillis  listened  and  asked  judicious  questions; 
but  Nan  sat  with  downcast  face,  plaiting  the  table-cloth  be- 
tween her  restless  fingers,  and  thinking  of  Dick  at  odd  in- 
tervals. 

She  took  it  all  in,  however,  and  roused  up  in  earnest  whrn 
Mr.  Trinder  had  finished  his  explanations,  and  Phillis  began 
to  talk  in  her  turn;  she  was.  actually  taking  the  old  lawyer 
into  her  confidence,  and  detailing  their  scheme  in  the  most 
business-like  way. 

"  The  mother  does  not  know  yet — this  is  all  in  confidence; 
but  Nan  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds  to  take  this  step," 
finished  the  young  philosopher,  calmly. 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Trinder — he  had  given 
vent  to  this  expression  at  various  intervals,  but  had  not  further 
interrupted  her.  "  Bless  my  soul!  my  dear  young  ladies,  I 
think — excuse  me  if  1  am  too  abrupt,  but  you  must  be  dream- 
mg. 

Phillis  shook  her  head  smilingly;  and  as  Dorothy  came  into 
the  room  that  moment  to  lay  the  luncheon,  she  proposed  a 
turn  in  the  garden,  and  fetched  Mr.  Trinder's  hat  herself,  and 
guided  him  to  a  side  walk,  where  they  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  drawing-room  windows.  Nan  followed  them,  and  tried  to 
keep  step  with  Mr.  Trinder^s  shambling  footsteps,  as  he 
walked  between  the  girls  with  a  hot,  j^erplexed  face,  and  still 
muttering  to  himself  at  intervals. 

"  It  is  all  in  confidence,"  repeated  Phillis,  in  the  same  calm 
voice. 

*'  And  you  are  actually  serious?    You  are  not  joking?" 


68  NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS. 

"  Do  your  clients  generally  joke  when  they  are  ruined?" 
returned  Phillis,  with  natural  exasperation.  "Do  you  think 
Nan  and  I  are  in  such  excellent  spirits  that  we  could  originate 
such  a  piece-  of  drollery?  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Trinder,  but  I 
must  say  I  do  not  think  your  remark  quite  well  timed.'^  And 
Phillis  turned  away  with  a  little  dignity. 

"  No,  no!  now  you  are  put  out,  and  no  wonder!"  returned 
Mr.  Trinder,  soothingly;  and  he  stood  quite  still  on  the  gravel 
path,  and  fixed  his  keen  little  eyes  on  the  two  young  creatures 
before  him — Nan,  with  her  pale  cheeks  and  sad  eyes,  and 
Phillis,  alert,  irritated,  full  of  repressed  energy.  "  Dear, 
dear!  what  a  pity!"  groaned  the  old  man;  "  two  such  bonny 
lasses!  and  to  think  a  little  management  and  listening  to  my 
advice  would  have  kept  the  house  over  your  heads,  if  only 
youf  mother  would  have  hearkened  to  me!" 

"  It  is  too  late  for  all  that  now,  Mr.  Trinder,"  replied  Phil- 
lis, impatiently:  "isn't  it  waste  of  time  crying  over  spilled 
milk  when  we  must  be  taking  our  goods  to  market?  We 
must  make  the  best  of  our  little  commodities,"  sighed  the  girl. 
"If  we  were  only  clever  and  accomplished,  we  might  do  bet- 
ter; but  now — '■'  and  Phillis  left  her  sentence  unfinished, 
which  was  a  way  she  had,  and  which  people  thought  very  tell- 
ing. 

"But,  my  dear  young  lady,  with  all  your  advantages, 
and — "     Here  Phillis  interrupted  him  rather  brusquely. 

"  What  advantages?  Do  you  mean  we  had  a  governess? 
Well,  we  had  three,  one  after  the  other;  and  they  were  none 
of  them  likely  to  turn  out  first-rate  pupils.  Oh,  we  are  well 
enough,  compared  to  other  girls:  if  we  had  not  to  earn  our 
own  living  we  should  not  be  so  much  amiss.  But,  Nan,  why 
don't  you  speak?  why  do  you  leave  me  all  the  hard  work? 
Did  you  not  tell  us  last  night  that  you  were  not  fit  for  a  gov- 
erness?" 

Nan  felt  rather  ashamed  of  her  silence  after  this.  It  was 
true  that  she  was  leaving  all  the  onus  of  their  plan  on  Phillis, 
and  it  was  certainly  time  for  her  to  come  to  her  rescue.  So 
she  quietly  but  rather  shyly  indorsed  her  sister's  speech,  and 
assured  Mr.  Trinder  that  they  had  carefully  considered  the 
matter  from  every  point  of  view,  and,  though  it  was  a  very 
poor  prospect  and  invoked  a  great  deal  of  work  and  self-sac- 
rifice, she.  Nan,  thought  that  Phillis  was  right,  and  that  it 
was  the  best — indeed,  the  only — thing  they  could  do  under  the 
circumstances. 

"  For  myself,  1  prefer  it  infinitely  to  letting  lodgings," 
finished  Nan:  and  Phillis  looked  at  her  gratefully, 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  69 

Buf.  Mr.  Trinder  was  obstinate  and  had  old-fashioned  views, 
and  argued  the  whole  thing  in  his  dictatorial  masculine  way. 
They  sat  down  to  luncheon,  and  presently  sent  Dorothy  away 
— a  piece  of  independence  that  bitterly  offended  that  crabbed 
but  faithful  individual — and  wrangled  busily  through  the 
whole  of  the  meal. 

Mr.  Trinder  never  could  remember  afterward  whether  it 
was  lamb  or  mutton  he  had  eaten;  he  had  a  vague  idea  that 
Dulce  had  handed  him  the  mint  sauce,  and  that  he  had  de- 
clined it  and  helped  himself  to  salad.  The  doubt  disturbed 
him  for  the  first  twenty  miles  of  his  homeward  journey. 
"  Good  gracious!  for  a  man  not  to  know  whether  he  is  eating 
Iamb  or  mutton!"  he  soliloquized,  as  he  vainly  tried  to  enjoy 
his  usual  nap;  "  but  then  I  never  was  so  upset  in  my  life. 
Those  pretty  creatures,  and  Challoners,  too — bless  my  soul!" 
And  here  the  lawyer's  cogitations  became  confused  and  misty. 

Nan,  who  had  more  than  once  seen  tears  in  the  lawyer's 
shrewd  little  gray  eyes,  had  been  very  gentle  and  tolerant  over 
the  old  man's  irritability;  but  Phillis  had  resented  his  caustic 
speeches  somewhat  hotly.  Dulce,  who  was  on  her  best  be- 
havior, was  determined  not  to  interfere  or  say  a  word  to  thwart 
her  sisters:  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  explain  to  Mr.  Trinder 
that  they  would  not  have  to  carry  parcels,  as  Phillis  meant  to 
hire  a  boy.  She  had  no  idea  that  this  magnanimous  speech 
was  in  a  figurative  manner  the  last  straw  that  broke  the 
camel's  back.  Mr.  Trinder  pushed  back  his  chair  hastily, 
made  some  excuse  that  his  train  must  be  due,  and  beat  a  re- 
treat an  hour  before  the  time,  unable  to  pursue  such  a  painful 
subject  any  longer. 

Nan  rose  with  a  sigh  of  relief  as  soon  as  the  door  closed 
upon  their  visitor,  and  took  refuge  in  the  shady  drawing-room 
with  her  mother,  whom  she  found  in  a  very  tearful.  Querulous 
state,  requirmg  a  great  deal  of  soothing.  They  had  decided 
that  no  visitors  were  to  be  admitted  that  afternoon. 

"  You  may  say  your  mistress  is  indisposed  with  a  bad 
keadache,  Dorothy,  and  that  we  are  keeping  the  house  quiet," 
Nan  remarked,  with  a  little  dignit}',  with  the  remembrance  of 
that  late  passage  at  arms. 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Nan,"  returned  the  old  servant.  How- 
ever, she  was  a  little  cowed  by  Nan's  manner:  such  an  order 
had  never  before  been  given  in  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Challoner's 
headaches  were  common  events  in  every-day  life,  and  had 
never  been  known  before  to  interfere  with  their  afternoon  re- 
ceptions. A  little  eau  de  Cologne  and  extra  petting,  a 
stronger  cup  of  tea  served  up  to  her  in  her  bedroom,  had  beep 


70  NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GIRLS. 

the  ouly  rpmedies;  the  girls  had  always  had  their  tennis  as 
usual,  and  the  sound  of  their  voices  and  laughter  had  been  as 
music  in  their  mother's  ears. 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Xan/'  was  all  Dorothy  ventured  to  an- 
swer; but  she  withdrew  with  a  face  puckered  up  with  anxiety. 
She  took  in  the  tea-tray  unbidden  at  an  earlier  hour  than 
usual;  there  were  Dulce's  favorite  hot  cakes,  and  some  rounds 
of  delicately  buttered  toast,  "  for  the  young  ladies  have  not 
eaten  above  a  morsel  at  luncheon,"  said  JJorothy,  in  explana- 
tion to  her  mistress. 

"Never  mind  us,^' returned  Nan,  with  a  friendly  nod  at 
the  old  woman:  "  it  has  been  so  hot  to  day."  And  then  she 
coaxed  her  mother  to  eat,  and  made  believe  herself  to  enjoy 
the  repasi  wiiile  she  wondered  how  many  more  evenings  they 
should  spend  in  the  pretty  drawing-room  on  which  they  had 
expended  so  much  labor. 

Nan  had  countermanded  the  late  dinner,  which  they  all 
felt  would  be  a  pretense  and  mockery;  and,  as  Mrs.  Chulluner's 
headache  refused  to  yield  to  the  usual  remedies,  the  was  obliged 
to  retire  to  bed  as  soon  as  the  sun  set,  and  the  three  girls  went 
out  into  the  garden  and  walked  up  and  down  ihe  lawn  with 
their  arms  interlaced,  while  Dorothy  wati;hed  them  from  the 
pantry  window,  and  wiped  away  a  tear  or  two,  as  she  washed 
up  the  tea  things. 

"Howl  should  like  a  long  walk!"  exclaimed  Duice,  im- 
patiently. "  It  is  so  narrow  and  confined  here;  but  it  would 
never  do*  we  should  meet  people." 

"  No,  it  would  neier  do,"  agreed  her  sisters,  feeling  a  fresh 
pang  that  such  avoidance  was  necessary.  They  had  never 
hidden  anything  before,  and  the  thought  that  this  mystery  lay 
between  them  and  their  friends  was  exquisitely  painful. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  never  cared  to  see  one  of  them  again!" 
sighed  poor  N"an,  for  which  speech  she  was  rather  sharply  re- 
buked by  PhiUis. 

They  settled  a  fair  amount  of  business  before  they  went  to 
bed  that  night;  and  when  Dorothy  brought  in  the  supper-tray, 
bearing  a  little  covered  dish  in  triumph,  which  she  set  down 
before  Nan,  Nan  looked  at  her  with  grave,  reproachful  eyes, 
in  which  there  was  a  great  deal  of  kindness. 

"  You  should  not  do  this,  Dorothv,"  she  said,  very  gently: 
"  we  can  not  afford  such  delicacies  now." 

"  It  is  your  favorite  dish.  Miss  Nan,"  returned  Dorothy, 
quiteignoring  this  remark.  "  Susan  has  cooked  it  to  a  nicety; 
but  it  will  be  spoiled  if  it  is  not  eaten  hot  "  And  she  stood 
over  them  while  Nan  dispensed  the  dainty.     "  You  must  egt 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  71 

it  while  it  is  hot,"  she  kept  saying,  as  she  fidgeted  about  the 
room,  taking  up  things  and  putting  them  down  again.  Phil- 
lis  looiced  at.  Nan  with  a  comical  expression  of  dismay. 

"  Dorothy,  come  here/'  she  exclaimed,  at  last,  pushing 
away  her  plate.  "  Don't  you  see  that  Susan  is  wasting  ail  her 
talents  on  us,  and  that  we  can't  eat  to-dav?" 

"  E^-ei-y  one  can  eat  if  they  try,  Miss  Pliillis,"  replied  Dor- 
othy, oracularly.  "  But  a  thing  like  that  must  be  hot,  or  it 
is  spoiled." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  it  being  hot,"  returned  Phillis,  be- 
ginning to  laugh.  She  was  so  tired,  and  Dorothy  was  such  a 
droll  old  thing;  and  how  were  even  stewed  pigeous  to  be  ap- 
petizing under  the  circumstances? 

"  Oh,  you  mav  laugh,"  b.gan  Dorothy,  in  an  offended 
tone;  but  Philiis  took  hold  of  her  and  nearly  shook  her. 

"Oh,  what  astu[iid  old  thing  you  are!  Don't  you  know 
what  a  silly,  aggravating  old  creature  you  can  be  when  you 
like.'  If  I  lauo;li  It  is  because  everv'hjnu:  is  so  ludicrous  and 
wreti-hed.     iSan  and  Dulce  are  not  hiughmg. " 

"  No,  indeed,"  [lut  in  Dulce;  "  we  are  far,  far  too  un- 
happvl" 

,  '■  What  is  it,  Miss  Kan?"  asked  Dorothy,  sidling  up  to  her 
in  a  coaxing  manner.  "  I  am  only  an  old  servant,  but  it  was 
me  that  put  Miss  Dnlce  in  her  father's  arms — '  the  p-etty 
Iamb,'  as  he  cailed  her,  and  she  with  a  skin  like  a  lily.  If 
there  is  trouble,  you  would  not  keep  it  from  her  old  nurse, 
sureh?" 

"  No,  indeed,  Dorothy;  we  want  to  tell  you,"  returned 
Nan.  louihid  bv'  lliis  a[)pcal;  and  then  she  q.netly  recapitu- 
lated the  main  p  ints  that  concerned  their  dithculties — iheir 
mother's  los  ,  their  future  poverty,  the  necessity  for  having 
Glen  Cotlag-e  and  settling  down  at  the  Friary. 

"  We  shall  all  have  to  work,"  finished  Nan,  with  prudent 
vagueness,  not  daring  to  intrust  their  plan  to  Dorothy;  "  the 
cottage  is  small,  and,  of  course,  we  can  onlv  keep  one  serv- 
ant. " 

"  1  dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  manage  if  you  will  help  me  a 
little,"  returned  Dorothy,  drying  her  old  eyes  with  the  corner 
of  her  apron.  "  Dear,  dear!  to  think  of  such  an  affliction 
coming  upon  my  mistress  and  the  dear  young  ladies!  It  is 
like  an  earthquake  or  a  flood,  or  something  sudden  and  unex- 
pected— Lord  deliver  us!  And  to  think  of  my  speaking  crossly 
to  you.  Miss  Nan,  and  you  with  all  this  worry  on  your  mind." 

"  We  will  not  think  of  that,"  returned  Nan,  soothingly. 
*'  Susan's  quarter  will  be  up  shortly,  and  we  must  get  her 


^^  ISOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS. 

away  as  soon  as  possible.  My  great  fear  is  that  the  work  may 
be  too  much  for  you,  poor  Dorothy;  and  that — that — we  may 
have  to  keep  you  waiting  sometimes  for  your  wages,'^  she 
added,  rather  hesitatingly,  fearing  to  ofleud  Dorothy's  touchy 
temper,  and  yet  determined  to  put  the  whole  matter  clearly 
before  her. 

"  1  don't  think  we  need  talk  about  that,"  returned  Dor- 
othy, with  dignity.  "  I  have  not  saved  up  my  wages  for  nine- 
teen years  without  having  a  nest-egg  laid  up  for  rainy  days. 
Wages — when  I  mention  the  word.  Miss  Nan/'  went  on  Dor- 
othy, waxing  somewhat  irate,  "  it  will  be  time  enough  to  enter 
upon  that  subject.  I  haven't  deserved  such  a  speech;  no,  that 
1  haven't,"  went  on  Doroth}^,  with  a  sob.    "  Wages,  indeed!" 

"  Now,  nursey,  you  sha'n't  be  cross  with  Nan,"  cried  Dulce, 
throwing  her  arms  round  the  old  woman;  for,  in  spite  of  her 
eighteen  years,  she  was  still  Dorothy's  special  charge.  "  She's 
quite  right;  it  may  be  an  unpleasant  subject,  but  we  will  not 
have  you  working  for  us  for  nothing." 

"  Very  well.  Miss  Dulce,"  returned  Dorothy,  in  a  choked 
voice,  preparing  to  withdraw;  but  Nan  caught  hold  of  the 
hard,  work-worn  hand,  and  held  her  fast. 

"  Oh,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  add  to  our  trouble  now,  when 
we  are  so  terribly  unhap[)y!  1  never  meant  to  hurt  your 
feelings  by  what  1  said.  If  you  will  onl;y  go  to  the  Friary  and 
help  us  to  make  the  dear  mother  comfortable,  1,  for  one,  will 
be  deeply  grateful." 

"  And  you  will  not  talk  of  wages?"  asked  Dorothy,  molli- 
fied by  Nan's  sweet,  pleading  tones. 

"  Not  until  we  can  afford  to  do  so,"  returned  Nan,  hastily, 
feeling  that  this  was  a  safe  compromise,  and  that  they  should 
be  eked  out  somehow.  And  then,  the  stewed  pigeons  being 
regarded  as  a  failure,  Dorothy  consented  to  remove  the  sup- 
per-tray, and  the  long  day  was  declared  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   FRIARY. 

Oldfield  was  rather  mystified  by  the  Challoners'  move- 
ments. There  were  absolutely  three  afternoons  during  which 
Nan  and  her  sisters  were  invisible.  There  was  a  tennis-party 
at  the  Paines'  on  one  of  these  days,  but  at  the  last  minute 
they  had  excused  themselves.  Nan's  prettily  worded  note 
was  declared  very  vague  and  unsatisfactory,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon  there  was  a  regular  invasion  of  the  cottage— 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS,  YS 

Carrie  Paine,  and  two  of  the  Twentyman  girJs,  and  Adelaide 
Sartoris,  aud  her  young  brother  Albert. 

They  found  Dulce  alone,  looking  very  sad  and  forlorn. 

Nan  and  Phillis  had  gone  down  to  Hadleigh  that  morning, 
she  explained  in  a  rather  confused  way;  they  were  not  expected 
back  until  the  following  evening. 

On  being  pressed  by  Miss  Sartoris  as  to  the  reason  of  this 
sudden  trip,  she  added,  rather  awkwardly,  that  it  was  on 
business;  her  mother  was  not  well — oh,  very  far  from  well; 
and  thev  had  to  look  at  a  house  that  belonged  to  them,  as  the 
tenant  had  lately  died. 

This  was  all  very  plausible;  but  Dulce's  manner  was  so 
constrained,  and  she  spoke  with  such  hesitation,  that  Miss 
Sartoris  was  convinced  that  something  lay  behind.  They  went 
out  into  the  garden,  however,  and  chose  sides  for  their  game 
of  tennis;  and,  though  Dulce  had  never  played  so  badly  in  her 
life,  the  fresh  air  and  exercise  did  her  good,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  afternoon  she  looked  a  little  less  droojDing. 

It  was  felt  to  be  a  failure,  however,  by  the  whole  party;  aud 
when  tea  was  over,  there  was  no  mention  of  a  second  game. 
"  No,  we  will  not  stay  any  longer,"  observed  Isabella  Twen- 
tyman,  kissing  the  girl  with  much  affection.  "  Of  course  we 
understand  that  you  will  be  wanting  to  sit  with  your  mother." 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  do  not  come  in  to-morrow  we  shall  quite 
know  how  it  is,"  added  Miss  Sartoris,  good-naturedly,  for 
which  Dulce  thanked  her  and  looked  relieved. 

She  stood  at  the  hall  door  watching  them  as  they  walked 
down  the  village  street,  swinging  their  rackets  and  talking 
merrily. 

"  What  happy  girls!"  she  thought,  with  a  sigh.  Miss  Sar- 
toris was  an  heiress,  and  the  Twentyraaus  were  rich,  and  every 
one  knew  that  Carrie  and  Sophy  Paine  would  have  money. 
"  None  of  them  will  have  to  work,"  said  poor  Dulce,  sorrow- 
fully to  herself:  "  they  can  go  on  playing  tennis  and  driving 
and  riding  and  dancing  as  long  as  they  like."  And  then  she 
went  up  to  her  mother's  room  with  lagging  footsteps  and  a 
cloudy  brow. 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it  there  is  something  amiss  with 
those  Challoners,"  said  Miss  Sartoris,  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  cottage;  "  no  one  has  seen  anything  of  them 
for  the  last  three  or  four  days,  and  I  never  saw  Duloe  so  unlike 
herself." 

"  Oh,  1  hope  not,"  returned  Carrie,  gravely,  who  hadheaid 
enough  from  her  father  to  guess  that  there  was  pecuniary  em^ 
barrassment  at  the  bottom.     "  Poor  little  thing,  she  did  seeoj 


74:  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

rather  sabdaed.  How  many  people  do  you  expect  to  muster 
to-inon'057,  Adelaide?"  and  theuMiss  Sartoris  understood  that 
the  subject  was  to  be  changed. 

While  Dulce  was  trying  to  entertain  her  friends.  Nan  and 
Phillis  were  reeonnoitering  the  Friary. 

They  had  taken  an  early  train  to  London,  and  had  contrived 
to  reach  Hadleigh  a  little  before  three.  They  went  first  to 
Beach  House — a  small  unpretending  house  on  the  Parade,  kept 
by  a  certain  Mrs.  Mozley,  with  whom  they  had  once  lodged 
after  Dulce  had  the  measles. 

The  good  woman  received  them  with  the  utmost  cordiality. 
Her  place  was  pretty  nearly  filled,  she  told  them  proudly;  the 
drawing-room  had  been  taken  for  three  months,  and  an  elderly 
couple  were  in  the  dining-room. 

"  But  there  is  a  bedroom  I  could  let  you  have  for  one 
night/'  finished  Mrs.  Mozley,  "  and  there  is  the  little  side 
parlor  where  you  could  have  your  tea  and  breakfast."  And 
when  Nan  had  thanked  her,  and  suggested  the  addition  of 
chops  to  their  evening  meal,  they  left  their  modest  luggage 
and  set  out  for  the  Friary. 

Phillis  would  have  gone  direct  to  their  destination,  but  Nan 
pleaded  for  one  turn  on  the  Parade.  She  wanted  a  glimpse  of 
the  sea,  and  it  was  such  a  beautiful  afternoon. 

The  tide  was  out,  and  the  long  black  break-waters  were  un- 
covereil;  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  wet  shingle  and  narrow 
strip  of  yellow  sand.  The  si^a  looked  blue  and  unruffled,  with 
little  sparkles  and  gleams  of  light,  and  white  sails  e'liminered 
on  the  horizon.  Some  boatmen  wwe  dragging  a  boat  down 
the  beach;  it  grated  noisily  over  the  pebbles,  A  merry  party 
were  about  to  embark — a  tall  mini  in  a  straw  hat,  and  two 
boys  in  knickerbockers.  Their  sisters  were  watching  them. 
"  Oh,  Reggie,  do  be  careful!"  Nan  heard  one  of  the  girls  say, 
as  he  waded  knee-deep  into  the  water. 

"  Come,  Nan,  we  ought  not  to  dawdle  like  this!"  ex- 
clainieJ  Phillis,  impatienily;  and  they  went  on  quickly,  past 
the  long  row  of  old-fashioned  white  houses  with  the  green  be- 
fore them,  and  I  hat  sweet  Sussex  border  of  so'^t  feathery  tama- 
risk, and  then  past  the  ciicket-tield,  and  down  to  the  white- 
wa.-hed  cottages  of  tiie  Preventive  Station;  and  then  they 
tuned  back  and  walked  toward  the  Steyne,  and  after  that 
Nail  decla:ed  herself  salistied. 

There  were  plenty  of  p-'ople  on  the  Parade,  and  most  of 
them  looked  after  the  two  girls  as  they  [)assed.  Nan's  sweet 
bloom  and  graceful  caaiage  always  attracted  notice;  and  Phil- 


IfOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  75 

lis,  although  she  generally  suffered  from  cotiiparisoii  with  her 
sister,  was  still  very  uncamaioii  looking. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  who  those  young  ladies  are,"  ob- 
served a  militarj'-looking  man  with  a  white  mustache,  who 
was  standing  at  the  Library  door  waiting  for  his  daughter  to 
make  some  purchases.  "  Look  at  them,  Elizabeth;  one  of 
them  is  such  a  pretty  girl,  and  they  walk  so  well.^' 

"  Dear  father,  I  suppose  they  are  only  some  new-comers; 
we  shall  see  their  names  down  in  the  visitors'  list  by  and  by;" 
and  Miss  Middleton  smiled  as  she  took  her  father's  arm,  for 
she  was  slightly  lame.  She  knew  strangers  always  interested 
him,  and  that  he  would  make  it  his  business  for  the  next  few 
days  to  find  out  everything  about  them. 

"  Did  you  see  that  nice-looking  woman?"  asked  Phillis, 
when  they  had  passed.  "  She  was  quite  young,  only  her  hair 
was  gray:  fancy,  a  gray-haired  girl!" 

*'  Oh,  she  must  be  older  than  she  looks,"  returned  Nan, 
indifferently. 

She  was  not  looking  at  people;  she  was  far  too  busily  en- 
gaged identifying  each  well-remembered  spot. 

There  was  the  shabby  little  cottage,  where  she  and  her 
mother  had  once  stayed  after  an  illness  of  Mrs.  Challoner's. 
What  odd  little  rooms  they  had  occupied,  looking  over  a  strip 
of  garden-ground  full  of  marigolds!  "  Marigolds-all-in-a-row 
Cottage,"  she  had  named  it  in  her  home  letters.  It  was 
nearly  opposite  the  White  House  where  Mrs.  Oheyne  lived. 
Nan  remembered  her — a  handsome,  sad-looking  woman,  who 
always  wore  black,  and  drove  out  in  such  handsome  carriages. 

"Always  alone;  how  sad!"  Nan  thought;  and  she  won- 
dered as  thev  walked  past  the  low  stone  walls  with  grassy 
mounds  sloping  from  them,  and  a  belt  of  shrubbery  shutting 
out  views  of  the  house,  whether  Mrs.  Cheyne  lived  there  still. 

They  hud  reached  a  quiet  country  corner  now;  there  was  a 
clump  of  trees,  guarded  by  posts  and  chains;  a  white  house 
stood  far  back.  There  were  two  or  three  other  houses,  and  a 
cottage  dotted  down  here  and  there.  The  road  looked  shady 
and  inviting.     Nan  began  to  look  about  her  more  cheerfully. 

"  1  am  glad  it  is  so  quiet,  and  so  far  away  from  the  town, 
and  that  our  neighbors  will  not  be  able  to  overlook  us." 

"  I  was  just  thinking  of  that  as  a  disad  /antage,"  returned 
Phillis,  with  placid  opposition.  "  It  is  a  pity,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, that  we  are  not  nearer  the  town."  And  after 
that  Nan  held  her  peace. 

They  were  passing  tin  old-fashioned  house  with  a  green  door 
in  the  wall.,  when  it  suddenly  opened,  and  a  tall,giave-looking 


^6  HOT    LIKE    OTHER    GlRtS. 

young  man,  in  clerical  attire,  came  out  quickly  upon  them, 
and  then  drew  back  to  let  them  pass. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  the  new  vicar?'^  whispered  Phillis,  when 
they  had  gone  a  few  steps.  "  You  know  poor  old  Doctor  Mus- 
grave  is  dead,  and  most  likely  that  is  his  successor.'^ 

"  I  forgot  that  was  the  vicarage,^'  returned  Nan.  But 
happily  she  did  not  turn  round  to  look  at  it  again;  if  she  had 
done  so,  she  would  have  seen  the  young  clergyman  still  stand- 
ing  by  the  green  door  watching  them.  "  It  is  a  shabby,  dull 
old  house  in  front;  but  I  remember  that  when  mother  and 
I  returned  Mrs.  Musgrave's  call  we  were  shown  into  such  s, 
dear  old-fashioned  drawing-room,  with  windows  looking  out  ou 
such  a  pleasant  garden.     I  quite  fell  in  love  with  it." 

"  Wei!,  we  shall  be  near  neighbors,"  observed  Phillis,  some- 
what shortly,  as  she  paused  before  another  green  door,  set  in 
a  long  blank  wall;  "  for  here  we  are  at  the  Friary,  and  I  had 
better  just  run  over  the  way  and  get  the  key  from  Mrs. 
Crump.'* 

Nan  nodded,  and  then  stood  like  an  image  of  patience 
before  the  shabby  green  door.  Would  it  open  and  lot  them 
into  a  new,  untried  life?  What  sort  of  fading  hopes,  of  dim 
regrets,  would  be  left  outside  when  they  crossed  the  tnreshold? 
They  thought  of  the  empty  rooms,  not  yet  swept  and  gar- 
nished, made  her  shiver;  the  upper  windgws  looked  blankly  at 
her,  like  blind,  unrecognizing  eyes.  She'^was  quite  glad  when 
Phillis  joined  her  again,  swinging  the  key  on  her  little  finger, 
and  iiumming  a  tune  in  forced  cheerfulness. 

"  VVhat  a  dull,  shut-in  place!  1  think  the  name  of  Friai-y 
suits  it  exactly,' '  observed  Nan,  disconsolately,  as  they  went 
up  the  little  flagged  path  bordered  with  lilac  bushes.  "  it 
feels  like  a  miniature  convent  or  prison:  we  might  have  a 
grating  in  the  door,  and  answer  all  outsiders  through  it." 

"  Nonsense!"  returned  Phillis,  who  was  determined  to  take 
a  bright  view  of  things.  "  Don't  go  into  the  house  just  yet; 
I  want  to  see  the  garden."  And  she  led  the  way  down  a 
gloomy  side-path,  with  undipped  box  and  yews,  that  made  it 
dark  and  decidedly  damp.  This  brought  them  to  a  little  lawn, 
with  tall,  rank  grass  that  might  have  been  mown  for  hay,  a'ld 
some  side-beds  full  of  old-fashioned  flowers,  such  as  lupins 
and  monkshood,  pinks  and  small  pansies;  a  dreary  little 
greenhouse,  with  a  few  empty  flower-pots  and  a  turned-up 
box,  was  iu  one  corner,  and  an  attempt  at  a  rocKcry,  with  a 
periwinkle  climbing  over  it,  and  an  unaesirabie  num!)er  of 
oyster-shells. 

An  old  medlar-tree,  verj   wa/p«cj  and  guaned,  was  at  the 


HOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  *i7 

bottom  of  the  lawn,  and  beyond  this  a  small  kitchen-garden, 
with  iibundance  of  gooseberry  and  currant  bushes,  and  vast 
resources  in  the  shape  of  mint,  marjoram,  and  lavender. 

'*  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  what  a  wretched  little  jjiace  after  our 
dear  old  Glen  Cottage  garden!"  And,  in  spite  of  her  good 
resolutions,  Kan's  eyes  grew  misty. 

"  Com23arisous  are  odious,*'  retorted  Phillis,  briskly.  "  We 
have  just  to  make  the  best  of  things — and  I  don't  deny  they 
are  horrid — and  put  all  the  rest  away,  between  lavender,  on 
the  shelves  of  our  memor}-."  And  she  smiled  grimly  as  she 
picked  one  of  the  gray  spiky  flowers. 

And  then,  as  they  walked  round  the  weedy  paths,  she 
pointed  out  how  different  it  would  look  when  the  lawn  was 
mown,  and  all  the  weeds  and  oyster-shells  removed,  and  the 
box  and  yews  clipped,  and  a  little  paint  put  on  the  greenhouse. 

"  And  look  at  that  splendid  passion  flower,  growing  like  a 
weed  over  the  back  of  the  cottage,"  she  remarked,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand:  "it  only  wants  training  and  nailing  up. 
Poor  Miss  Monks  has  neglected  the  garden  shamefully;  but 
then  she  was  always  ailing." 

They  went  into  the  cottage  after  this.  The  entry  was 
rather  small  and  dark.  The  kitchen  came  first;  it  was  a 
tolerable-sized  apartment,  with  two  windows  looking  out  on 
the  lilacs  and  the  green  door  and  the  blank  wall. 

"  I  am  afraid  Dorothy  will  find  it  a  little  dull,"  Nan  ob- 
served, rather  ruefully.  And  again  she  thought  the  name  of 
Friary  was  well  given  to  this  grewsome  cottage;  but  she 
cheered  up  when  Phillis  opened  cupboards  and  showed  her  a 
light  little  scullery,  and  thought  that  perhaps  they  could  make 
it  comfortable  for  Dorothy. 

The  other  two  rooms  looked  upon  the  garden;  one  had 
three  windows,  and  was  really  a  very  pleasant  parlor. 

"  This  must  be  our  work-room,"  began  Phillis,  solemnly, 
as  she  stood  in  the  center  of  the  empty  room,  looking  round 
her  with  bright  knowing  glances.  "  Oh,  what  an  ugly  paper, 
Nan!  but  we  can  easily  put  up  a  prettier  one.  The  smaller 
room  must  be  where  we  live  and  take  our  meals;  it  is  not 
quite  so  cheerful  as  this.  It  is  so  nice  having  this  side- win- 
dow; it  will  give  us  more  light,  and  we  shall  be  able  to  see 
who  comes  in  at  the  door." 

"  Yes,  that  is  an  advantage,"  assented  Nan.  She  was 
agreeably  surprised  to  find  such  a  good-sized  room  in  the  cot- 
tage; it  was  decidedly  low,  and  the  windows  were  not  plate 
glass,  but  she  thought  that  on  summer  mornings  they  might 


^8  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIEtS. 

sit  there  very  comfortably  lookiug  out  at  the  lawn  and  tt^ 
medlar- tree. 

"  We  shall  be  glad  of  these  cupboards,"  she  suggested, 
after  a  pause,  while  Phillis  took  out  sundry  pieces  of  tape  from 
her  pocket  and  commenced  making  measurements  in  a  busi- 
ness-like manner.  "  Our  work  will  make  such  a  litter,  and  I 
should  like  things  to  be  as  tidy  as  possible.  1  am  thinking,' 
she  continued,  "  we  might  have  mother's  great  carved  ward- 
robe in  the  recess  behind  the  door.  It  is  really  a  magnificent 
piece  of  furniture,  and  in  a  work-room  it  would  not  be  so  out 
of  place;  we  could  hang  up  the  finished  and  unfinished  dresses 
in  it  out  of  the  dust.  And  we  could  have  the  little  drawing- 
room  chiffonier  between  the  windows  for  our  pieces,  and  odds 
and  ends  in  the  cupboards.  It  is  a  pity  our  table  is  round; 
but  perhaps  it  will  look  all  the  more  comfortable.  The  sew- 
ing-machine must  be  in  the  side-window,"  added  Nan,  who 
was  quite  in  her  element  now,  for  she  loved  all  housewifely 
arrangements;  "and  mother's  easy-chair  and  little  table  must 
stand  by  the  fire-place.  My  davenport  will  be  useful  for 
papers  and  accounts." 

*'  It  is  really  a  very  convenient  room,"  returned  Phillis,  in 
a  satisfied  voice,  when  they  had  exhausted  its  capabilities; 
and,  though  the  second  parlor  was  small  and  dull  in  com- 
parison, even  Nan  dropped  no  disparaging  word. 

Both  of  them  agreed  it  would  do  very  well.  There  was  a 
place  for  the  large  roomy  couch  that  their  mother  so  much 
atJected,  and  their  favorite  chairs  and  knickknacks  would 
soon  make  it  look  cozy;  and  after  this  they  went  upstairs 
hand  in  hand. 

There  were  only  four  bedrooms,  and  two  of  these  were  not 
large;  the  most  cheerful  one  was,  of  course,  allotted  to  their 
mother,  and  the  next  in  size  must  be  for  Phillis  and  Dulce. 
Nan  was  to  have  a  small  one  next  to  her  mother. 

The  evening  was  drawing  on  by  the  time  they  had  finished 
their  measurements  and  left  the  cottage.  Nan,  who  was  tired 
and  wanted  her  tea,  was  for  hurrying  on  to  Beach  House;  but 
Phillis  insisted  on  calling  at  the  Library.  She  wanted  to  put 
some  questions  to  Miss  Milner.  To-morrow  they  would  have 
the  paper-hanger,  and  look  out  for  a  gardener,  and  there  was 
Mrs.  Crump  to  interview  about  cleaning  down  the  cottage. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  returned  Nan,  wearily,  and  she  followed 
Phillis  into  the  shop,  where  good-natured,  bustling  Miss  Mil- 
ner came  to  them  at  once. 

Phillis  put  the  question  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  for  (here  were 
other  customers  exchanging  books  over  the  counter.     The 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  79 

same  young  clergj'mun  they  had  before  noticed  had  just 
bought  a  local  paper,  and  was  waiting  evidently  for  a  young 
lady  who  was  turning  over  some  magazines  quite  close  to 
them. 

"  Do  we  know  of  a  good  dress-maker  in  the  place?''  re- 
peated Miss  Milner,  in  her  loud,  cheerful  voice,  very  much  to 
Nan's  discomtort,  for  the  clerg}'man  looked  up  from  his  paper 
at  once.  "  Miss  Monks  was  a  tolerable  fit,  but,  jDOor  thing! 
she  died  a  few  weeks  ago;  and  Mrs.  Slasher,  who  lives  over 
Viner's,  the  haberdasher's,  can  not  hold  a  caudle  to  her.  Miss 
Masham,  there  " — pointing  to  a  smart  ringleted  young  per- 
son, evidently  her  assistant — "had  her  gown  ruined  by  her; 
hadn't  you.  Miss  Masham?" 

Miss  Masham  simpered,  but  her  reply  was  inaudible;  but 
the  young  lady  who  was  standing  near  them  suddenly  turned 
round. 

"  There  is  Mrs.  Langley,  wdio  lives  just  by.  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  give  these  ladies  her  address,  for  she  is  a  widow  with 
little  children,  and  I  am  anxious  to  procure  her  work  " — and 
then  she  looked  at  Xan  and  hesitated — "  that  is,  if  you  are  not 
very  particular,"  she  added,  with  sudden  embarrassment,  for 
even  in  her  morning-dress  there  was  a  certain  style  about  Xan 
that  distinguished  her  from  other  jDeople. 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Drummond,"  returned  Miss  Milner, 
gratefully.  "  Shall  1  write  down  the  address  for  you, 
ma  am.'' 

"  Yes — no — thank  you  very  much,  but  perhaps  it  does  not 
matter,"  returned  Kan,  hurriedly,  feeling  awkward  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life.  But  Phillis,  who  realized  all  the  humor 
of  the  situation,  interposed: 

"  The  address  will  do  us  no  harm,  and  we  may  as  well  have 
it,  although  we  should  not  trouble  Mrs.  Langley.  1  will  call 
in  again.  Miss  Mduer,  to-morrow  morning,  and  then  1  will 
explain  what  it  is  we  really  want.  We  are  in  a  hurry  now," 
continued  Phillis,  loftily,  turnuig  away  with  a  dignified  in- 
clination of  her  head  toward  the  officious  stranger. 

Phillis  was  not  prepossessed  in  her  favor.  She  was  a  dark, 
wiry  little  person,  not  exactly  plain,  but  svith  an  odd,  comical 
face;  and  she  was  dressed  so  dowdily  and  with  such  utter  dis- 
regard of  taste  that  Phillis  instinctively  felt  Mrs.  Langley  was 
not  to  be  dreaded. 

"  What  a  queer  little  body!  Do  you  think  she  belongs  to 
him?"  she  asked  Xau,  as  they  walked  rapidly  touaiu  Beach 
House. 

What  in  the  world  made  you  strike  in  after  that  fash- 


ii. 


80  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

ion?"  demanded  the  yoniig  man,  as  he  and  his  companion 
followed  more  slotv'Iy  in  the  strangers'  footsteps.  "  That  is 
just  your  way,  Mattie,  interfering  aud  meddling  in  other  folks' 
affairs.  Why  can  not  you  mind  your  own  business  some- 
times/' he  continued,  irritably,  "  instead  of  putting  your  foot 
into  other  people's?" 

"  You  are  as  cross  as  two  sticks  this  afternoon,  Archie," 
returned  his  sister,  composedly.  She  had  a  sharp  little  peck- 
ing voice  that  seemed  to  match  her,  somehow;  for  she  was  not 
unlike  a  bright-eyed  bird,  and  had  quick  pouncing  move- 
ments. "  Wait  a  moment;  my  braid  has  got  torn,  and  is 
dragging." 

"  1  wish  you  would  think  a  little  more  of  my  position,  and 
take  greater  pains  with  your  appearance,"  returned  her  broth- 
er, in  an  annoyed  voice.  "  What  would  Grace  say  to  see  what 
a  fright  you  make  of  yourself?  It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  for  a 
woman  to  be  untidy  or  careless  in  her  dress;  it  is  unfemiuine! 
it  is  unlady-like!"  hurling  each  separate  epithet  at  her. 

Perhaps  Miss  Drummond  was  used  to  these  compliments, 
for  she  merely  pinned  her  braid  without  seeming  the  least  put 
out. 

"  1  think  I  am  a  little  shabby,'*  she  remarked,  tranquilly, 
as  they  at  last  walked  on.  "  Perhaps  Mrs.  Laugley  had  bet- 
ter make  me  a  dress  too,"  with  a  laugh,  for,  in  spite  of  her 
sharp  voice,  she  was  an  even-tempered  little  body;  but  this 
last  remark  only  added  fuel  to  his  wrath. 

"  You  really  have  less  sense  than  a  child.  The  idea  of 
recommending  a  person  like  Mrs.  Langley  to  those  young 
ladies — a  woman  who  works  for  Miss  Masiiam!" 

"  They  were  very  plainly  dressed,  Archie,*'  returned  poor 
Mattie,  who  felt  this  last  snub  acutely;  for,  if  there  was  one 
thing  upon  which  she  prided  herself,  it  was  her  good  sense. 
"  They  had  dark  print  dresses — not  as  good  as  the  one  I  have 
on — and  nothing  could  be  quieter." 

*'  Oh,  you  absurd  little  goose!"  exclaimed  her  brother,  and 
he  burst  into  a  laugh,  for  the  drollery  of  the  comparison  re- 
stored him  to  instant  good  humor.  "  If  you  can  not  see  the 
difference  between  that  frumpish  gown  of  yours,  with  its  little 
bobtails  and  fringes,  and  those  pretty  dresses  before  us,  1 
must  say  you  are  as  blind  as  a  bat,  Mattie." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  my  gown,"  returned  Mattie,  with  a  sigh. 

She  had  had  these  home-thrusts  to  meet  and  parry  nearly 
every  day  ever  since  she  had  come  to  keep  house  for  this 
fastidious  brother.  She  was  a  very  active,  bustling  little  per- 
son, who  had  done  a  great  deal  of  tough  work  in  her  day;  but 


ITOT    LIKE    OTHER    GlRLS.  ?1 

she  never  could  be  marie  to  see  that  unless  a  woman  add  the 
graces  of  life  to  the  cardinal  virtues  she  is,  comparative!', 
speaking,  a  failure  in  the  eyes  of  the  ether  sex. 

So,  though  Mattie  was  a  frugal  housekeeper,  and  worked 
from  moriiiiig  to  night  in  his  service — the  veriest  little  drudge 
that  was  ever  seen — she  was  a  perpetual  eyesore  to  her  broth- 
er, who  loved  feminine  grace  and  repose — whose  tastes  were 
fastidious  and  somewhat  arbitrary.  And  so  it  was  poor  Mat- 
tie  had  more  censure  than  praise,  and  wrote  home  piteous  let- 
ters complaining  that  nothing  she  did  seemed  to  satisfy  Archie, 
and  that  her  mother  had  made  a  great  mistake  in  sending  her, 
and  not  Grace,  to  preside  over  his  bachelor  establishment. 

"  Oh,  Philiis,  how  shall  we  have  courage  to  publish  our 
plan?"  exclaimed  Nan,  when  they  were  at  last  discussing  the 
much-needed  tea  and  chops  in  the  little  parlor  at  Beach 
House. 

The  window  was  wide  open.  The  returning  tide  was  com- 
ing in  with  a  pleasant  ripple  and  wash  over  the  shingle.  The 
Parade  was  nearly  empty;  but  some  children's  voices  sounded 
from  the  green  space  before  the  houses.  The  brown  sail  of  a 
fishing  craft  dipped  into  the  horizon.  It  was  so  cool,  so  quiet, 
so  restful;  but  Nan's  eyes  were  weary,  and  she  put  the  ques- 
tion wistfully. 

Philiis  looked  into  the  tea-pot  to  gain  a  moment's  reprieve; 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  had  an  odd  pucker  in  them. 

"  I  never  said  it  was  not  hard,"  she  burst  out  at  last.  *'  I 
felt  like  a  fool  myself  while  1  was  speaking  to  Miss  Milner; 
but  then  that  clergyman  was  peeping  at  us  between  the  folds 
of  his  paper.  He  seemed  a  nice-looking,  gentlemanly  sort  of 
man.  Do  you  think  that  queer  little  lady  in  the  plaid  dress 
could  be  his  wife?  Oh,  no;  1  remember  Miss  Milner  addressed 
her  as  Miss  Drummond.  Then  she  must  be  his  sister;  bpw 
odd!" 

"  Why  should  it  be  odd?"  remarked  Nan,  absently,  who 
had  not  particularly  noticed  them. 

"  Oh,  she  was  such  a  dowdy  little  thing,  not  a  bit  nice  look- 
ing, and  he  was  quite  handsome,  and  looked  rather  distin- 
guished. You  know  1  alR'ays  take  stock  of  people,  and  make 
up  my  mind  about  them  at  once.  And  then  we  are  to  be  such 
close  neighbors." 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  shall  see  much  of  them,"  was  Nan's 
somewhat  depressed  reply;  and  then,  as  they  had  finished 
their  tea,  they  placed  themselves  at  the  open  window,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  about  the  business  of  next  day;  and,  in  discussing 
cupboards  and  new  papers.  Nan  forgot  her  fatigue,  and  grew 


83  NOT    LIKE    OTIILK    GIKLS. 

£0  interested  that  it  was  quite  late  before  they  thought  of  re- 
tiriug  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"tell  us  all  about  it,  nan." 

Nan  ov^erslept  herself,  and  was  rather  late  the  next  morn- 
ing; but  as  she  entered  the  parlor,  with  an  exclamation  of 
penitence  for  her  tardiness,  she  found  her  little  speech  was 
addressed  to  the  empty  walls.  A  moment  after,  a  shadow 
crossed  the  window,  and  Phillis  came  in. 

She  went  up  to  Nan  and  i^issed  her,  and  there  was  a  gleam 
of  fun  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  you  lazy  girl!"  she  said;  "leaving  me  all  the  hard 
work  to  do.  Do  you  know,  1  have  been  around  to  the 
Library,  and  have  had  it  all  out  with  Miss  Milner;  and  in  the 
Steyne  1  met  the  clergyman  again,  and — would  you  believe  it, 
he  looked  quite  disap[)ointec]  because  you  were  not  there?" 

"  Nonsense!"  returned  Nan,  sharply.  She  never  liked  this 
sort  of  joking  speeches;  they  seemed  treasonable  to  Dick. 

"  Oh,  but  he  did,"  persisted  Phillis,  who  was  a  little  excited 
and  reckless  after  her  morning's  work.  "  He  threw  me  a 
disparaging  glance,  which  said,  as  plainly  as  possible,  '  Why 
are  you  not  the  other  one?'  That  comes  from  having  a  sister 
handsomer  tlian  one's  self." 

"  Oh,  Phillis!  when  people  always  think  you  so  nice,  and 
when  you  are  so  clever!" 

Phillis  got  up  and  executed  a  little  courtesy  in  the  prettiest 
way,  and  then  she  sunk  down  upon  her  chair  in  pretended  ex- 
haustion. 

"  What  T  have  been  through!  But  I  have  come  out  of  it 
alive.  Confess,  now,  there's  a  dear,  that  you  could  not  have 
done  it!" 

"  No,  indeed,"  with  an  alarmed  air.  "  Do  you  really 
mean  to  say  that  you  actually  told  Miss  Milner  what  we  meant 
to  do?" 

"  I  told  her  everything.  There,  sit  down  and  begin  your 
breakfast,  Nan,  or  we  shall  never  be  readj\  I  found  her  alone 
in  the  shop.  Thank  goodness,  that  Miss  Mawham  was  not 
there.  I  have  taken  a  dislike  to  that  simpering  young  person, 
and  would  rather  make  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Squalls  any  day  than 
for  her.  I  told  her  the  truth,  without  a  bit  of  disguise. 
Would  you  believe  it,  the  good  creature  actually  cried  about 
it!  she  quite  upset  me,  too.  '  Such  young  ladies!  dear,  dear! 
one  dow  not  often  see  such,'  she  kept  saying  over  aud  over 


ifOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLg.  88 

again.  And  then  she  put  oub  her  hand  and  stroked  my  dress, 
and  said,  '  Sach  a  beautiful  fit,  too;  and  to  think  you  have 
made  it  yourself!  such  a  clever  young  lady!  Oh,  dear!  what 
ever  will  Mr.  Drummond  and  Miss  Mattie  say?'  Stupid  old 
thing!  as  though  we  cared  what  he  said!'* 

"  Oh,  Phillis!  and  she  cried  over  it?'* 

"  She  did  indeed.  I  am  not  exaggerating.  Two  big  round 
tears  rolled  dosvn  her  cheeks.  I  could  have  kissed  her  for 
them.  And  then  she  made  me  sit  down  in  the  little  room  be- 
hind the  shop,  where  she  was  having  her  breakfast,  and  poured 
me  out  a  cup  of  tea,  and — "  But  here  Nan  interrupted  her, 
and  there  was  a  trace  of  anxiety  in  her  manner. 

"Poured' you  out  a  cup  of  tea!  Miss  Milner!  And  you 
drank  it?" 

"Of  course  I  drank  it;  it  was  very  good,  and  1  was 
thirsty.'* 

But  here  Nan  pounced  upon  her  unexpectedly,  and  dragged 
her  to  the  window. 

"Your  fun  is  only  make-believe;  there  is  no  true  ring 
about  it.  Let  me  see  your  eyes.  Oh,  Phil,  Phil!  I  thought 
so!     You  hat'e  been  crying,  too!" 

Phillis  looked  a  little  taken  aback.  Nan  was  too  sharp  for 
her.     She  tried  to  shake  herself  free  a  little  pettishly. 

"  Well,  if  I  choose  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  for  once  in  my 
life,  you  need  not  be  silly  about  it;  the  old  thing  was  so  up- 
setting, and— and  it  was  so  hard  to  get  it  out."  Phillis  would 
not  have  told  for  worlds  how  utterly  she  had  broken  down 
over  that  task  of  hers;  how  the  stranger's  sympathy  had 
touched  so  painful  a  chord  that,  before  she  kuevv  what  she 
was  doing,  she  had  laid  her  head  down  on  the  counter  and  was 
crying  like  a  baby — all  the  more  that  she  had  so  bravely  pent 
up  her  feeli^igs  all  these  days  that  she  might  not  dishearten 
her  sisters. 

But,  as  Nan  petted  and  praised  her,  she  did  tell  hew  good 
Miss  Milner  had  been  to  her. 

"  Fancy  a  fat  old  thing  like  that  having  such  fine  feelings,*' 
she  said,  with  an  attempt  to  recover  her  spriglitliness.  "  She 
was  as  good  as  a  mother  to  me — made  me  sit  in  the  easy- 
chair,  and  brought  me  some  elder-flower  water  to  bathe  my 
eyes,  and  tried  to  cheer  me  up  by  saying  that  we  should  have 
plenty  of  work.  She  has  promised  not  to  tell  any  one  just 
yet  about  us;  but  when  we  are  really  in  the  Friary  she  will 
speak  to  people  and  recommend  us;  and  " — here  Phillis  gave 
a  little  laugh — "  we  are  to  make  up  a  new  black  silk  for  her 
that  her  brother  has  just  sent  her.    Oh,  dear,  what  will  moth- 


84  HOT    LIKE    OTHER    Gltltig. 

er  say  to  us,  Nan?"    And  Phillis  looked  at  her  in  an  alarmed, 
beseeching  way,  as  though  in  sore  need  of  comfort. 

Nan  looked  grave;  but  there  was  no  hesitation  in  her  an- 
swer. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  that  now,  Phil;  it 
has  to  be  done,  and  we  must  just  go  through  with  it/' 

"  You  are  right,  Nanny  darling,  we  must  just  go  through 
with  it,"  agreed  Phillis;  and.  then  they  went  on  with  their. 
nntinished  breakfast,  and  after  that  the  business  of  the  day 
began. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  they  reached  home.  Dulce, 
who  was  at  the  gate  looking  out  for  them,  nearly  smothered 
them  with  kisses. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  things;  how  glad  1  am  to  get  you  back," 
she  said,  holding  them  both.  "  Have  you  really  only  been 
away  since  yesterday  morning?     It  seems  a  week  at  least." 

"You  ridiculous  child!  as  though  we  believe  that!  But 
how  is  mother?" 

"  Oh,  pretty  well;  but  she  will  be  better  now  j'ou  are  back. 
Do  you  know,"  eying  them  both  very  gravely,  "  I  think  it 
was  a  wise  thing  of  you  to  go  away  like  that?  It  has  shown  me 
that  mother  and  I  could  not  do  without  you  at  all;  we  should 
have  pined  away  in  those  lodgings;  it  has  quite  reconciled  me 
to  the  plan,"  finished  Dulce,  in  a  loud  whisper  that  reached 
her  mother's  ears. 

"  What  plan?  What  are  you  talking  about,  Dulce?  and 
why  do  you  keep  your  sisters  standing  in  the  hall?"  asked 
Mrs.  Challoner,  a  little  irritably.  But  her  brief  nervousness 
vanished  at  the  sight  of  their  faces;  she  wanted  nothing  more, 
she  told  herself,  but  to  see  them  round  her  and  hear  their 
voices. 

She  grew  quite  cheerful  when  Phillis  told  her  about  the  new 
papers,  and  how  Mrs.  Crump  was  to  clean  down  the  cottage^ 
and  how  Crump  had  promised  to  mow  the  grass  and  paint  the 
greenhouse,  and  Jack  and  Bobbie  were  to  weed  the  garden 
paths. 

"It  is  a  perfect  wilderness  now,  mother;  you  never  saw 
such  a  place." 

"  Never  mind,  so  that  it  will  hold  us,  and  that  we  shall  all 
be  together,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile.  "  But  Dulce  talked 
of  some  plan;  you  must  let  me  hear  it,  my  dears;  you  roust 
not  keep  me  in  the  dark  about  anything.  1  know  we  shall  all 
have  to  work,"  continued  the  poor  lady;  "but  if  we  be  all 
together,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  leave  me,  I  think  I  could 
bear  anything." 


Not    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  gSl 

"  Are  we  to  tell  her?"  motioned  Nau  with  her  lips  to 
Phillis;  and  as  Philjis  nodded,  "  Yes/'  Xan  gently  av}  quiet- 
ly began  unfolding  their  plan. 

But,  with  all  her  care  and  all  Phillis's  iDromptings,  the 
revelation  was  a  great  shock  to  Mrs.  Challoner;  in  her  weak- 
ened state  she  seemed  hardly  able  to  bear  it. 

Dulce  repented  bitterly  her  incautious  whisper  when  she 
saw  her  sisters'  tired  faces,  and  their  fruitless  attempts  to 
soften  the  effects  of  such  a  blow.  For  a  little  while  Mrs. 
Challoner  seemed  on  the  brink  of  despair;  she  would  not 
listen;  she  abandoned  herself  to  lamentations;  she  became  so 
hysterical  at  last  that  Dorothy  was  summoned  from  the  kitchen 
and  taken  into  confidence. 

"  Mother,  you  are  breaking  our  hearts,"  Nan  said,  at  last. 
She  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  chafing  her  hands,  and  Phillis 
was  fanning  her;  but  she  pushed  them  both  away  from  her 
with  weak  violence. 

"It  is  I  whose  heart  is  breaking!  AYhy  must  I  live  to  see 
such  things?  Dorothy,  do  you  know  my  daughters  are  going 
to  be  dress-makers? — my  daughters,  who  are  Challoners — who 
have  been  delicately  nurtured— who  might  hold  up  their  heads 
with  any  one?" 

"Dorothy,  hold  your  tongue!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  per- 
emptorily. "  You  are  not  to  speak;  this  is  for  us  to  decide, 
and  no  one  else.  Mammy,  you  are  making  Nan  look  quite 
pale;  she  is  dreadfully  tired,  and  so  am  1.  Why  need  we  de- 
cide anything  to-night?  Every  one  is  upset  and  excited,  and 
when  that  is  the  case  one  can  never  arrive  at  any  proper  con- 
clusion. Let  us  talk  about  it  to-morrow,  when  we  are  rested." 
An 3,  though  Mrs.  Challoner  would  not  allow  herself  to  be 
comforted,  Nan's  fatigue  and  paleness  were  so  visible  to  her 
maternal  eyes  that  they  were  more  eloquent  than  Phillis's 
words. 

"  I  must  not  think  only  of  myself.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  do  as 
you  wish.  There  will  be  time  enough  for  this  sort  of  talk  to- 
morrow. Dorothy,  will  you  help  me?  The  young  ladies  are 
tired;  they  have  had  a  long  journey.  No,  my  dear,  no,"  as 
Dulce  pressed  forward;  "I  would  rather  have  Dorothy." 
And,  as  the  old  servant  gave  them  a  warning  glance,  they 
were  obliged  to  let  her  have  her  way. 

"  Mammy  has  never  been  like  this  before,"  pouted  Dulce, 
when  they  were  left  alone.  "  She  drives  us  away  from  her 
as  though  we  had  done  something  purposely  to  vex  her." 

"  It  is  becaus(3  she  can  not  bear  the  sight  of  us  to-night," 
returned  Phillis,  solemnly.     "  It  is  worse  for  her  than  for  usj 


86  NOT    LlKt;    OTITKR    GIRLg. 

a  mother  feels  things  for  her  children  more  tlian  for  herself; 
it  is  nature,  that  is  whvkt  it  is,"  she  finished,  philosophically; 
"but  she  will  be  better  to-morrow/'  Aud  after  this  the 
miserable  little  conclave  broke  up. 

Mrs.  Challoner  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  her  pillow  was 
sown  with  thorns.  To  think  of  the  Challoners  falling  so  low 
as  this!  To  think  of  her  pretty  Nan,  her  clever,  bright 
Phillis,  her  pet  Dulce  coming  to  this.  "  Oh,  the  pity  of  it!" 
she  cried,  in  the  dark  hours,  when  vitality  runs  lowest,  and 
thoughts  seem  to  flow  involuntarily  toward  a  dark  center. 

But  with  the  morning  came  sunshine,  and  her  girls'  faces — 
a  little  graver  than  usual,  perhaps,  but  still  full  of  youth  and 
the  brightness  of  energy;  and  the  sluggish  nightmare  of  yes- 
terday's grief  began  to  fade  a  little. 

"  Now,  mammy,  you  are  not  going  to  be  naughty  to-day?" 
was  Dulce's  morning  salutation  as  she  seated  herself  on  the 
bed. 

Mrs.  Challoner  smiled  faintly. 

*'  Was  I  very  naughty  last  night,  Dulce?" 

"Oh,  as  bad  as  possible.  You  pushed  poor  Nan  and 
Phillis  away,  and  would  not  let  any  one  come  near  you  but 
that  cross  old  Dorothy,  and  you  never  bade  us  good-night;  but 
if  you  promise  to  be  good,  I  will  forgive  you  and  make  it  up," 
finished  Dulce,  with  those  light  butterfly  kisses  to  which  she 
was  addicted. 

"  Now,  chatter-box,  it  is  my  turn,"  interrupted  Phillis;  aud 
then  she  began  a  carefully  concocted  little  speech,  very  care- 
fully drawn  out  to  suit  her  mother's  sensitive  peculiarities. 

81ie  went  over  the  old  ground  patiently  point  bv  point. 
Mrs.  Challoner  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  letting  lodgings. 

"  I  knew  you  ivould  agree  with  us,"  returned  Phillis,  with 
a  convincing  nod;  and  then  she  went  on  to  the  next  clause. 

Mrs.  Challoner  argued  a  great  deal  about  the  governess 
schem3.  Sbe  was  quite  angry  with  Phillis,  and  seemed  to 
suffer  a  great  deal  of  self-reproach  when  the  girl  sjooke  of 
their  defeetive  education  and  lack  of  accomplislimeuts.  Nan 
had  to  come  to  her  sister's  rescue;  but  the  mother  was  slow 
to  yield  the  point. 

"  1  don't  know  what  you  mean.  My  girls  are  not  different 
from  other  girls.  What  would  your  jDOor  father  say  if  he 
were  alive?  It  is  cruel  to  say  this  to  me,  when  I  stinted  my- 
self to  give  you  every  possible  advantage,  and  I  paid  Miss 
Mai'liu  eightv  pounds  a  year^' she  concluded,  tearfully,  feel- 
ing as  though  she  were  the  victim  of  a  fraud. 

Wi''  was  far  more  easdy  convinced  that  going  out  as  com- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  87 

panions  would  be  impracticable  under  the  circumstances. 
"  Ob,  no,  tbat  '.vill  never  do!'''  she  cried,  when  the  two  little 
rooms  with  J3ulce  were  proposed;  and  after  this  Phillis  found 
her  task  less  difficult.  She  talked  ber  mother  over  at  last  to 
reluctant  acquiescence.  "  I  never  knew  how  I  came  to  con- 
sent," she  said,  afterward,  "but  they  were  too  much  for 
me." 

"  We  can  not  starve.  I  suppose  I  must  give  in  to  you,^' 
she  said,  at  last;  "  but  I  shall  never  hold  up  my  head  again.'* 
And  she  really  believed  what  she  said. 

"  Motner,  you  must  trust  us,"  replied  Phillis,  touched  by 
this  victory  she  had  won.  "  Do  you  know  what  I  said  to 
Dulce?  Work  can  not  degrade  us.  Though  we  are  dress- 
makers, we  are  still  Clialloners.  Nothing  can  make  us  lose 
our  dignity  und  self-respect  as  gentlewomen." 

"  Other  people  will  not  recognize  it,"  returned  her  mother, 
with  a  sigh.  "  You  will  lose  caste.  No  one  will  visit  you. 
Among  your  equals  you  will  be  treated  as  inferiors.  It  is  this 
that  bows  me  to  the  earth  with  shame," 

"  Mother,  how  can  you  talk  so?"  cried  Nan,  in  a  clear,  in- 
dignant voice.  "  Wliat  does  it  matter  if  people  do  not  visit 
us?  We  must  have  a  world  of  our  own,  and  be  suthcient  for 
ourselves,  if  we  can  only  keep  together.  Is  not  that  what  you 
have  said  to  us  over  and  over  again?  Well,  we  shall  be  to- 
gether, we  shall  have  each  other.  What  does  the  outside 
world  matter  to  us  after  all?" 

"  Oh,  you  are  young;  you  do  not  know  what  complications 
may  arise,"  replied  Mrs.  Challoner,  with  the  gloomy  fore- 
thought of  middle  age.  She  thought  she  knew  the  world  bet- 
ter than  they,  but  iu  reality  she  was  almost  as  guileless  and 
ignorant  as  her  daughters.  "  Until  you  begin,  you  do  not 
know  the  difficulties  that  will  beset  you,"  she  went  on. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  foreboding  si)eech,  she  was  some- 
what comforted  by  Nan's  words,  "  they  would  be  together  I" 
Well,  if  Providence  chose  to  inflict  this  humiliation  aiid  afflic- 
tive dispensation  on  her,  it  could  be  borne  as  long  as  she  had 
her  children  around  her. 

Nan  made  one  more  speech — a  somewhat  stern  one  for  her: 
"  Our   trouble   will  bo  a  furnace   to  try  our  friends.      We 
shall  know  the  true  from  the  false.     Oidy  those  who  are  really 
worth  the  name  will  be  faithful  to  us." 

Nan  was  thinking  of  Dick;  but  her  mother  misunderstood 
her,  and  grew  alarmed. 

"  You  will  not  tell  the  Paiues  and  the  other  people  about 


88  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

here  what  you  intend  to  do,  surely?  I  could  not  bear  that! 
no,  indeed,  I  could  not  bear  that!'' 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  dear  mother,"  returned  Nan,  sadly; 
"  we  are  far  too  great  cowards  to  do  such  a  thing,  and,  after 
all,  there  is  no  need  to  put  ourselves  to  needless  pain.  If  the 
Maynes  were  here  we  might  not  be  able  to  keep  it  from  them, 
perhaps,  and  so  I  am  thankful  they  are  away." 

Nan  said  this  quite  calmly,  though  her  mother  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  her  in  a  most  tenderly  mournful  fashion.  She  had 
quite  forgotten  their  Longmead  neighbors,  but  now,  as  Nan 
recalled  them  to  her  mind,  she  remembered  Mr.  Mayne,  and 
her  look  had  become  compassionate. 

'*  It  will  be  all  over  with  those  poor  children."  she  thought 
to  herself:  "  the  father  will  never  allow  it — never;  and  I  can 
not  wonder  at  him."  And  then  her  heart  softened  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Dick,  whom  she  had  never  thought  good  enough  for  Nan, 
for  she  remembered  now  with  a  sore  pang  that  her  pride  was 
laid  low  in  the  dust,  and  that  she  could  not  hope  now  that  her 
daughters  would  make  splendid  matches;  even  Dick  would  be 
above  theui,  though  his  father  had  been  in  trade,  and  though 
he  had  no  grandfather  worth  mentioning. 

A  few  days  after  their  return  from  Iladleigh,  there  was  an- 
other long  business  interview  with  Mr.  Tiinder,  in  which 
evervthing  was  settled.  A  tenant  had  already  been  found  for 
the  cottage.  A  young  couple,  on  the  e^e  of  their  marriage, 
who  had  long  been  looking  for  a  suitable  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, had  closed  at  once  with  Mr.  Trinder's  offer,  and  had 
taken  the  lease  off  their  hands.  The  gentleman  was  a  cousin 
of  the  Paines,  and,  partly  for  the  convenience  of  the  in-coming 
tenants,  and  partly  because  the  Challoners  wished  to  move  as 
soon  as  possible,  there  was  only  a  delay  of  a  few  weeks  before 
the  actual  flitting. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  dismay  of  the  neigh- 
borhood when  the  news  was  circulated. 

Immediately  after  their  return  from  Hadleigh,  Nan  and 
Phillis  took  coutisel  together,  and,  summoning  up  their  cour- 
age, went  from  one  to  another  of  their  friends  and  quietly  an- 
nounced their  approaching  departure. 

"  Mother  has  had  losses,  and  we  are  now  dreadfully  poor, 
and  we  are  going  to  leave  Glen  Cottage  and  go  down  to  a 
small  house  we  have  at  Hadleigh,"  said  Nan,  who  by  virtue 
of  an  additional  year  of  age  was  spokeswoman  on  this  occa- 
sion. She  had  fully  rehearsed  this  little  speech,  which  she 
intended  to  say  at  every  house  in  due  rotation.  "  We  will 
not  disguise  the  truth;  we  will  let  people  know  that  we  are 


ifOT    LIKE    OtHER    GltlLS.  h^ 

poor,  and  then  they  will  not  expect  impossibilities/'  she  said> 
as  they  walked  down  the  shady  road  toward  the  Paines'  house 
— for  the  Paines  were  their  most  intimate  friends  and  had  a 
claim  to  the  first  confidence. 

"  I  think  that  will  be  sufficient;  no  one  has  any  right  to 
know  more/'  she  continued,  decidedly,  fully  determined  that 
no  amount  of  coaxing  and  cross-examination  should  wring  from 
her  one  unnecessary  word. 

But  she  little  knew  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  keep  their 
own  counsel.  The  Paines  were  not  alone:  they  very  seldom 
were.  "  Adelaide  Sartoris  was  there,  and  the  younger  Miss 
Twentyman,  and  a  young  widow,  a  Mrs.  Forbes,  who  was  a 
distant  connection  of  Mrs.  Paine. 

!Nan  was  convinced  that  they  had  all  been  talking  about 
them,  for  there  was  rather  an  embarrassed  pause  as  she  and 
Phillis  entered  the  room.  Carrie  looked  a  little  confused  as 
she  greeted  them. 

Nan  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Paine,  who  was  rather  deaf,  and  in 
due  time  made  her  little  speech.  She  was  rather  pale  with 
the  effort,  and  her  voice  faltered  a  little,  but  every  word  was 
heard  at -the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  Leave  Glen  Cottage,  my  dear?  I  can't  have  heard  you 
rightly.  1  am  very  deaf  to-day — very.  I  think  I  must  have 
caught  cold."  And  Mrs.  Paine  turned  a  mild  face  of  per- 
plexity on  Nan;  but,  before  she  could  reiterate  her  words, 
Carrie  was  on  the  footstool  at  her  feet,  and  Miss  Sartoris,  with 
a  grave  look  of  concern  on  her  handsome  features  was  stand- 
ing beside  her: 

"  Oh,  Nan!  tell  us  all  about  it!  Of  course  we  saw  some- 
thing was  the  matter.  Dulce  was  so  strange  that  afternoon; 
and  you  have  all  been  keeping  yourselves  invisible  for  ever 
so  long." 

"  There  is  very  little  to  tell,"  returned  Nan,  trying  to  speak 
cheerfully.  "  Mother  has  had  bad  news.  Mr.  Gardiner  is 
bankrupt,  and  all  our  invested  money  is  gone.  Of  course  we 
could  not  go  on  living  at  Glen  Cottage.  There  is  some  talk, 
Carrie,  of  your  cousin,  Mr.  Ibbetson,  coming  to  look  at  it:  it 
will  be  nice  for  us  if  he  could  take  the  lease  off  our  hands,  and 
then  we  should  go  down  to  the  Friary." 

"  How  1  shall  hate  to  see  Ralph  there — not  but  what  it 
will  suit  him  and  Louisa  well  enough,  I  dare  say.  But  never 
mind  him:  I  want  to  know  all  about  yourselves,"  continued 
Carrie,  affectionately.  "  This  is  dreadful.  Nan!  1  can  hardly 
believe  it.     What  are  we  to  do  without  you.^  and  where  is  the 


90  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Friary?  and  what  is  it  like?  and  what  will  yon  do  with  your- 
selves when  you  get  there?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  that  is  what  we  want  to  know,"  agreed  Miss 
Sartoris,  putting  her  delicately  gloved  hand  on  Nan's  shoulder; 
and  then  Sophy  Paine  joined  the  little  group,  and  Mrs.  Forbes 
and  Miss  Twentyman  left  off  talking  to  Phillis,  and  began 
listening  with  all  their  might.  Now  it  was  that  Nan  began 
to  foresee  difficulties. 

"  The  Friary  is  very  small,"  she  went  on,  "  but  it  will  just 
hold  us  and  Dorothy.  Dorothy  is  coming  with  us,  of  course. 
She  is  old,  but  she  works  better  than  some  of  the  young  ones. 
She  is  a  faithful  creature — " 

But  Canie  inlerru[)teil  her  impatiently. 

"  But,  Nan,  what  will  you  do  with  yourselves?  Hadleigh 
is  a  nice  place,  I  believe.  Mamma,  we  must  all  go  down 
the -e  next  summer,  and  stay  there — you  shall  come  with  us, 
Adelaide — and  then  we  shall  be  able  to  cheer  these  poor  things 
up;  and  Nan,  you  and  Phillis  must  come  and  stay  with  us. 
We  don't  mean  to  give  you  up  like  this.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter about  being  poor?  We  are  all  old  friends  together. 
You  shall  give  us  tea  at  the  Friary;  and  I  dare  say  there  are 
tennis-sf rounds  at  Hadleigh,  and  we  will  have  nice  times  to- 
gether. " 

"  Of  course  we  will  come  and  see  you,"  added  Miss  Sartoris, 
with  a  friendly  pressure  of  Nan's  shoulder;  but  the  poor  girl 
only  colored  up  and  looked  embarrassed,  and  then  it  was  that 
Phillis,  who  was  watching  her  ojjportunity,  struck  in:         » 

"'You  are  all  very  good;  but,  Carrie,  I  don't  believe  you 
understand  Nan  one  bit.  When  people  lose  their  money  they 
have  to  work.  We  shall  all  have  to  put  our  shoulder  to  the 
wheel.  We  would  give  you  tea,  of  course,  but  as  for  paying 
visits  and  playing  tennis,  it  is  only  idle  girls  like  yourselves 
who  have  time  for  that  sort  of  thing.  It  will  be  work  and  not 
play,  1  fear,  with  us." 

'"'  Oh,  Phillis!"  exclaimed  poor  Carrie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and  Mijs  Sartoris  looked  horriQed,  for  she  had  West  Indian 
blood  in  her  veins,  and  was  by  nature  somewhat  indolent  and 
pleasure-loving. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  will  have  to  be  governesses?"  she  asked, 
with  a  touch  of  disnniy  u\  her  voice. 

"We  shall  have  to  work,"  returned  Phillis,  vaguely. 
"  When  we  are  settled  at  the  Friary  we  must  look  round  us 
and  do  the  best  we  can."  This  was  felt  to  be  vague  by  the 
whole  party;  but  Pliillis's  manner  was  so  bold  and  well  assured 
that  no  one  suspected  that  anything  lay  beyond  the  margin  of 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  91 

her  speech.  They  had  not  made  up  their  minds,  perhaps;  Sh* 
Francis  Challoner  would  assist  tlitm;  or  there  were  other 
sources  of  help:  they  must  more  into  the  new  house  first,  and. 
then  see  what  was  to  be  done.  It  was  so  plausible,  so  sensible, 
that  every  one  was  deceived. 

",  Of  course  you  can  not  decide  in  such  a  hurry;  you  must 
have  so  much  to  do  just  now,"'  observed  Carrie.  "  You  must 
write  and  tell  us  all  your  plans,  Phillis,  and  if  there  be  anything 
we  can  do  to  help  you.  Mamma,  we  might  have  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner here  whde  the  cottage  is  dismantled.  Do  spare  her  to 
us.  Nan,  and  we  will  take  such  care  of  her!"  And  they  were 
still  discussing  this  point,  and  trying  to  overrule  Kan's  objec- 
tions— who  knew  nothing  would  induce  their  mother  to  leave 
them — when  other  visitors  were  announced,  and  in  the  con- 
fusion they  were  allowed  to  make  their  escape. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  LADDIR '^    PUTS   IST    AN    APPEARANCE. 

"  I  THINK  we  have  managed  that  as  well  as  possible!"  ex- 
claimed Phillis,  when  they  found  themselves  outside  the  gates. 
"  What  a  good  thing  Adelaide  and  Mrs.  Forbes  and  Lily  were 
there!  Now  we  need  only  call  at  those  three  houses  to  say 
good-bye.  How  hot  you  look,  NanI  and  how  they  all  hemmed 
you  in!  I  was  obliged  to  come  to  your  rescue,  you  were  so 
beset;  but  I  think  I  have  put  them  otf  the  scent." 

'*  Yes,  for  the  present;  but  think,  Phil,  if  Carrie  really 
carries  out  her  intention,  and  all  the  Paine  tribe  and  Adelaide 
Come  down  to  Hadleigh  next  summer!  No  wonder  I  am  hot; 
the  bare  idea  suffocates  me." 

"  Something  may  turn  up  before  then;  it  is  no  good  looking 
so  far  ahead,"  was  the  philosophical  rejoinder.  "  Adelaide  is 
rather  formidable,  certainly,  and,  in  spite  of  her  good  nature, 
one  does  not  feel  at  home  with  her.  There  is  a  flavor  of 
money  about  her,  I  think;  she  dresses,  talks,  and  lives  in  such 
a  gilded  way  one  finds  her  heavy;  but  she  may  get  married 
before  then.  Mr.  Dalrymple  certainly  seemed  to  mean  it 
when  he  was  down  here  last  winter,  and  he  will  be  a  good 
match  for  her.  Here  we  are  at  Fifzroy  Square.  I  wonder 
what  sort  of  humor  her  ladyship  will  be  in?" 

Lady  Fitzroy  received  them  very  g  aciously.  She  had  just 
been  indulgnig  in  a  slight  dis[)ute  wiih  her  husband,  and  the 
interruption  was  a  welcome  to  both  of  them;  besides,  she  was 
always  gracious  to  the  Challouers, 


93  NOT    LIKE    OTPIER    GIRLS. 

*'  You  have  just  come  in  time,  for  we  were  boring  each 
other  dreadfully,"  she  said,  in  her  pretty  languid  way,  lidd- 
ing out  a  hand  to  each  of  them.  "  Percival,  will  you  ring  the 
bell,  please?  1  can  not  think  why  Thorpe  does  not  bring  up 
the  tea  '  as  usual  '?" 

Lord  Fitzroy  obeyed  his  wife's  behest,  and  then  he  turned 
with  a  relieved  air  to  his  old  friend  Phillis.  She  was  the 
clever  one;  and  though  some  people  called  her  quiet,  that  was 
because  they  did  not  draw  her  out,  or  she  had  no  sympathy 
with  them.  He  had  always  found  her  decidedly  amusing  and 
"agreeable  in  the  days  of  his  bachelorhood. 

He  had  married  the  beauty  of  a  season,  but  the  beauty  was 
not  without  her  little  crotchets  and  tempers;  and,  though  he 
was  both  fond  aud  proud  of  his  wife,  he  found  Phillis's  talk 
a  relief  this  afternoon. 

Bat  Phillis  was  a  little  disfraUe  on  this  occasion;  she  wanted 
to  hear  what  Nan  was  saying  in  a  low  voice  across  the  room, 
and  Thorpe  and  his  subordinate  were  setting  the  tea-table,  and 
Lord  Fitzroy  would  place  himself  just  before  her. 

"  Now  look  here.  Miss  Challoner,"  he  was  saying,  '*  I  want 
to  tell  you  all  about  it;"  but  here  Thorpe  left  the  room,  and 
Lady  Fitzroy  interrupted  them: 

"  Oh,  Percival,  what  a  pity!  Do  you  hear-  -we  are  going  to 
lose  our  nicest  neighbors?  Dear  little  Glen  Cottage  is  to  be 
empty  in  a  week  or  so!" 

"Mr.  Ealph  Ibbetson  vv^ill  decide  to  take  it,  1  think;  and 
he  and  Miss  Blake  are  to  be  married  on  the  si'cteenth  of  next 
month,"  returned  Nan,  softly. 

"  Ibbetson  at  Glen  Cottage!  that  red-head ?,d  fellow!  My 
dear  Miss  Challoner,  what  sacrilege — what  desecration! 
What  do  you  mean  by  forsaking  us  in  this  fashion?  Are  ynu 
all  going  to  be  married?  Has  Sir  Francis  died  and  left  you  a 
fortune?  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  mysterious,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this?" 

"  If  you  will  let  a  person  speak,  Percival,"  returned  his 
wife,  with  dignity,  "  you  shall  have  an  answer;"  and  then 
she  looked  up  in  his  handsome,  good-natured  face,  and  her 
manner  softened  insensibly.  "  Poor  dear  Mrs.  Challoner  has 
had  losses!  Some  one  has  played  her  false,  and  they  are 
obliged  to  leave  Glen  Cottage.  But  Hadleigh  is  a  nice  place," 
she  went  on,  turning  to  Nan;  "  it  is  very  select.'  ' 

"  Where  did  you  say,  Evelyn?"  inquired  her  husband,  ea- 
gerly. "  Hadleigh,  in  Sussex?  Oh,  that  is  a  snug  little  place; 
no  Toms  aud  Harries  go  down  there  on  a  nine-hours'  trip.  I 
was  there  mjseif  once^  with  the  Shannontous.     Perhaps  Ladj 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEU    GIRLS.  S8 

Pitzioyand  I  may  rim  down  one  day  and  have  a  look  at  you," 
he  continued,  with  a  friendly  look  at  Phillis.  It  was  only 
one  of  his  good-natured  speeches,  but  his  wife  took  umbrage 
at  it. 

"  The  sea  never  agrees  with  me.  I  thought  you  knew  that, 
Percival!"  rather  reproachfully;  "but  I  dare  say  we  shall 
often  see  you  here,"  she  went  on,  fearing  Nan  would  think 
her  ungracious.  "  You  and  the  Paines  are  so  intimate  that 
they  are  sure  to  have  you  for  weeks  together;  it  is  so  pleasant 
revisiting  an  old  neighborhootl,  is  it  not?  I  know  I  always 
ieel  that  with  regard  to  iNuneaton.^' 

"  Nuneaton  never  suits  my  constitution.  I  thought  you 
would  have  remembered  that,  Evelyn,"  returned  her  husband, 
gravely;  and  then  they  both  laughed.  Lord  Fitzroy  was  not 
without  a  sense  of  humor,  and  often  restored  amity  by  a  jok- 
ing word  after  this  fashion,  and  then  the  conversation  pro- 
ceeded more  smoothly. 

Nan  and  Phillis  felt  far  more  at  their  ease  here  than  they 
had  felt  at  the  Paines'.  There  were  no  awkward  questions 
asked:  Lady  Fitzroy  was  far  too  well  bred  for  that.  If  she 
wondered  at  all  how  the  Challoners  were  to  live  after  they  had 
lost  their  money,  she  kept  such  remarks  for  her  husband's 
private  ear. 

"  Those  girls  ought  to  marry  well,"  observed  Lord  Fitzroy 
when  he  found  himself  alone  again  with  his  wife.  "  Miss 
Challoner  is  as  pretty  a  creature  as  one  need  see,  but  Miss 
Phillis  has  the  most  in  her." 

"  How  are  they  to  meet  people  if  they  are  going  to  hury 
themselves  in  a  little  sea-side  place?"  she  returned,  regret- 
fully. "  Shall  I  put  on  my  habit  now,  Percy?  do  you  think 
it  will  be  cool  enough  for  our  ride?" 

"  Yes,  run  along,  my  pet,  and  don't  keep  me  too  long 
waiting."  Nevertheless,  Lord  Fitzroy  did  not  object  when  his 
wife  made  room  for  him  a  moment  beside  her  on  the  couch, 
while  she  made  it  up  to  him  for  her  cross  speeches,  as  she  told 
him. 

"  There,  little  mother,  it  is  all  done!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  in 
a  tone  of  triumph,  as  later  on  in  the  afternoon  they  returned 
to  the  cottage;  but,  in  spite  of  her  bravado,  both  the  girls 
looked  terribly  jaded,  and  Nan  especially  seemed  out  of  spirits; 
but  then  they  had  been  round  the  Longmead  garden,  and  had 
gathered  some  flowers  in  the  conservatory,  and  this  alone 
would  have  been  depressing  vrork  for  Nan. 

From  that  time  they  lived  in  a  perpetual  whirl,  a  bustle  of 
activity  that  grew  greater,  and  not   less,  from  day  to  day. 


94  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Mrs.  ChalloiiPr  liad  quietly  but  decidedly  refused  the  Paines' 
iiivitaUDii.  Nun  was  right;  iiotliing  would  have  induced  her 
to  leave  her  girls  in  their  trouble:  she  made  light  of  their  dis- 
comfort, fo'got  her  invalid  airs,  and  persisted  in  fatiguing 
herself  to  an  alarming  extent, 

"  You  must  let  me  do  things;  I  should  be  wretched  to  sit 
with  my  hands  before  me,  and  not  help  you,"  she  said,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  when  they  appealed  in  desperation  to 
Dorotliy,  she  took  her  mistress's  side: 

"  Working  hurts  less  than  worrying.  Don't  you  be  fretting 
about  the  mistress  too  much,  or  watching  her  too  closely.  It 
will  do  her  no  harm,  take  my  word  for  it."  And  Dorothy 
was  right. 

But  there  was  one  piece  of  work  that  Nan  set  her  mother 
to  do  before  they  left  (he  cottage. 

"  Mother,"  she  said  to  her  one  day  when  they  were  alone 
together,  "  Mrs.  Mayne  will  be  wondering  why  you  do  not  an- 
swer her  letter.  I  think  you  had  better  write,  and  tell  her  a 
little  about  things.  We  must  not  put  it  ofE  any  longer,  or  she 
will  be  hurt  with  us."  And  Mrs.  Challoner  very  reluctantly 
set  about  her  unpleasant  task. 

But,  after  all,  it  was  Nan  who  furnished  the  greater  part  of 
the  composition.  Mrs.  Challoner  was  rather  verbose  and  de- 
scriptive in  her  style.  Nan  cut  down  her  sentences  ruthlessly, 
and  so  pruned  and  simplified  the  whole  epistle  that  her  moth- 
er failed  to  trace  her  own  handiwork;  and  at  the  last  she  added 
a  postscript  to  her  own  pretty  handwriting. 

Mrs.  Challoner  was  rather  dissatisfied  with  the  whole  thing. 
"  You  have  said  so  little.  Nan!     Mrs.  Mayne  will  be  quite 
affronted  at  our  reticence." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  harrowing  people's  feelings?"  was 
Nan's  response. 

It  was  quite  true  she  had  dwelt  as  little  as  possible  on  their 
troubles. 

The  few  opening  sentences  had  related  solely  to  their  friends* 
affairs. 

"  You  will  be  sorry  to  hear,"  Mrs.  Challoner  wrote  after 
this,  "  that  1  have  met  with  some  severe  losses.  1  dare  say 
Mr.  Mayne  will  remember  that  my  poor  husband  invested  our 
little  income  in  the  busines  of  his  cousin  Mark  Gardiner.  "We 
have  just  heard  the  unwelcome  news  that  Gardiner  &  Fowler 
have  failed  for  a  large  amount.  Under  these  circumstances, 
we  think  it  more  prudent  to  leave  Glen  Cottage  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  settle  at  Madleigh,  where  we  have  a  small  house 
belonging  to  us  called  the  Friary,     Fortunately  for  us,  Mr, 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  95 

Trinder  has  found  us  a  tenant,  who  will  take  the  remahider 
of  the  lease  off  our  hands.  Do  you  remember  Mr.  Ralph  Ib- 
betson,  the  Paiues'  cousin,  that  rather  heavy-looking  young 
man,  with  reddish  hair,  who  was  engaged  to  that  pretty  Miss 
Blake — well,  he  has  taken  Glen  Cottage;  and  1  hope  you 
will  find  them  nice  neighbors.  Tell  Dick  he  must  not  be  too 
sorry  to  miss  his  old  friends;  but  of  course  you  will  understand 
this  is  a  sad  break  to  us.  Settling  down  in  a  new  place  is 
never  very  pleasant;  and,  as  my  girls  will  have  to  help  them- 
selves, and  wo  shall  all  have  to  learn  to  do  without  things,  it 
will  be  somewhat  of  a  discipline  to  us;  but  as  long  as  we  are 
together,  we  all  feel  such  difficulties  can  be  easily  b;;rne. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Mayne  that,  if  1  had  foreseen  how  things  were 
to  turn  out,  1  would  have  conquered  my  indisposition,  and 
not  have  forfeited  my  last  evening  at  Longmead.^^ 

And  in  the  postscript  Nan  wrote  hurriedly: 

"  You  must  not  be  too  sorry  for  us,  dear  Mrs.  Mayne,  for 
mother  is  as  brave  as  possible,  and  we  are  all  determined,  to 
make  the  best  of  things. 

"  Of  course  it  is  very  sad  leaving  dear  Glen  Cottage,  where 
we  have  spent  such  happy  days;  but  though  the  Friary  is 
small,  we  shall  make  it  very  comfortable.  Tell  Dick  the  gar- 
den is  a  perfect  wilderness  at  present,  and  that  there  are  no 
roses — only  a  splendid  passion  flower  that  covers  the  whole 
back  of  the  house. '^ 

Nan  never  knew  why  she  wrote  this.  Was  it  to  remind  him 
vaguely  that  the  time  of  roses  was  over,  and  that  from  this 
day  things  would  be  different  with  them? 

Nan  was  quite  satisfied  when  she  had  dispatched  this  letter. 
It  told  just  enough,  and  not  too  much.  It  sorely  perplexed 
and  troubled  Dick;  and  yet  neither  he  nor  his  father  had  the 
least  idea  how  things  really  were  with  the  Chal loners. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so,  Bessie?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mayne,  al- 
most in  a  voice  of  triumph,  as  he  struck  his  hand  upon  the 
letter.  "  Paine  was  right  when  he  spoke  of  a  shaky  invest- 
ment. That  comes  of  women  pretending  to  understand  busi- 
ness.    A  pretty  mess  they  seem  to  have  made  of  it!" 

"  Mother,"  said  poor  Dick,  coming  up  to  her  when  he  found 
himself  alone  with  her  for  a  moment.  "  I  don't  understand 
this  letter.  I  can  not  read  between  the  lines,  somehow,  and 
yet  there  seems  something  more  than  meets  the  eye." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  bad  enough."  returned  Mrs.  Mavne,  who 
had  been  quietly  crying  ovtr  Nan's  postsci-ipt.  "Think  of 
them  leaving  Glen  Cottage,  and  of  these  poor  dear  girls  hav- 
ing to  make  themselves  useful!" 


06  iTOT    LIKE    OTHER    GI11L& 

"  It  is  just  that  that  bothers  me  so,"  replied  Dick,  with  a 
frowning  brow.  "  The  letter  tells  us  so  little;  it  is  so  con- 
strained in  tone;  as  though  they  were  keeping  something  from 
us.  Of  course  they  have  something  to  live  upon,  but  I  am 
afraid  ic  is  very  little." 

"Very  likely  they  will  only  have  one  servant^  ust  Dor- 
othy, and  no  one  else;  and  the  girls  will  have  to  help  in  the 
house,"  returned  his  mother,  thoughtfully.  "  That  will 
not  do  them  any  harm,  Dick;  it  always  improves  girls  to  make 
them  useful.  1  dare  say  the  Friary  is  a  very  small  place,  and 
then  I  am  sure,  with  a  little  help,  Dorothy  will  do  very  well." 

"  But,  mother,"  pleaded  Dick,  who  was  somewhat  com- 
forted by  this  sensible  view  of  the  matter,  *'  do  write  to  Nan 
or  Philiis,  and  beg  of  them  to  give  us  fuller  particulars." 
And,  though  Mrs.  Mayne  promised  she  would  do  so,  and  kept 
her  word,  Dick  was  not  satisfied,  but  sat  down  and  scrawled 
a  long  letter  to  Mrs.  Challoner,  so  incoherent  in  its  expressions 
of  sympathy  and  regret  that  it  quite  mystified  her;  but  Nan 
thought  it  perfect,  and  took  possession  of  it,  and  read  it  every 
day,  until  it  got  quite  thin  and  worn.  One  sentence  especially 
pleased  her.  "  I  don't  intend  ever  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the 
cottage  again,"  wrote  Dick;  "in  fact,  Oldfield  will  be  hate- 
ful without  you  all.  Of  course  I  shall  run  down  to  Hadleigh 
at  Christmas,  and  look  you  up,  and  see  for  myself  what  sort 
of  a  place  the  Friary  is.  Tell  Nan  I  will  get  her  jots  of  roses  for 
her  garden,  so  she  need  not  trouble  about  that;  and  give  them 
my  love,  and  tell  them  how  awfully  sorry  1  am  about  it  all." 

Poor  Dick!  the  news  of  his  friends'  misfortune  took  off  the 
edge  of  his  enjoyment  for  a  long  time.  Thanks  to  Nan's  un- 
selfishness, he  did  not  in  the  least  realize  the  true  state  of 
affairs;  nevertheless,  his  honest  heart  washeavy  at  the  thought 
of  the  empty  cottage,  and  he  was  quite  right  in  saying  Old- 
field  had  grown  suddenly  hateful  to  him,  and,  though  he  kept 
these  thoughts  to  himself  as  much  as  possible,  Mr,  Mayne  saw 
that  his  sou  was  depressed  and  ill  at  ease,  and  sent  him  away 
to  the  Swiss  Tyrol,  with  a  gay  party  of  young  people,  hoping 
a  few  weeks'  change  would  put  the  Challoners  out  of  his 
head.  Meanwhile,  Nan  and  her  sisters  worked  busily,  and 
their  friends  crowded  round  them,  helping  or  hindering,  ac- 
cording to  their  nature. 

On  the  last  afternoon  there  was  a  regular  invasion  of  the 
cottage.  The  drawing-room  carpet  was  up,  and  the  room 
was  full  of  packing-cases.  Carrie  Paine  had  taken  possession 
of  one,  and  her  sister  Sophy  and  Lily  Twentymau  had  a 
turned-up  box  between  them.  Miss  Sartoris  and  Gussie  Scobell 


NOT    LIRA    OTHEK    GIRLS.  97 

had  wicker  chairs.  Dorothy  had  just  brought  in  tea,  and 
placed  before  Nan  a  heterogeneous  assemblage  of  kitchen  cupa 
and  saucers,  mugs,  and  odds  and  ends  of  crockery,  when  Lady 
I'itzroy  entered  m  her  habit,  accompanied  by  her  sister,  the 
Honorable  Maud  Burgoyne,  both  of  whom  seemed  to  enjoy 
the  picMiic  excessively. 

"  Do  let  me  have  the  mug,"  implored  Miss  Burgoyne:  she 
was  a  pretty  little  brunette  with  a  nez  retrousse.  "  1  have 
never  drunk  out  of  one  since  my  nursery  days.  How  cool  it 
is,  after  the  sunny  roads!  1  think  carpets  ought  to  be  abol- 
ished in  the  summer.  When  I  have  a  house  of  my  own,  Eve- 
lyn, I  mean  to  have  Indian  matting  and  nothing  else  in  warm 
weather." 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  Indian  matting,"  returned  her  sister, 
sipping  her  tea  contentedly.  "  Fitzroy  hoi)ed  to  have  looked 
in  this  afternoon,  Mrs.  Challoner,  to  say  good-bye,  but  [here 
is  an  assault-at-arms  at  the  Albert  Hall,  and  he  is  taking  my 
young  brother  Algernon  to  see  it.  He  is  quite  inconsolable 
at  the  thought  of  losing  such  pleasant  neighbors,  and  sent  all 
sorts  of  pretty  messages,'^  finished  Lady  Fitzroy,  graciously. 

"  Here  is  Edgar,"  exclaimed  Carrie  Paine;  "  he  told  us 
that  he  meant  to  put  in  an  appearance;  but  I  am  afraid  the 
poor  boy  will  find  himself  de  iruj)  among  so  many  ladies." 

Edgar  nasihe  youngest  Paine — a  tall  Eton  boy,  who  looked 
as  though  he  would  soon  be  too  big  for  jackets,  and  an 
especial  friend  of  Kan's. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  and  say  good-bye.  Gar!"  she 
said,  summoning  him  to  her  side,  as  the  boy  looked  round 
him  bluihing  and  half  terrified.  "  What  have  you  got  there 
under  your  jacket?" 

"  It  is  the  puppy  1  promised  you,"  returned  Edgar,  eagerly; 
*'  don't  yon  know — Kell's  puppy'*  Father  said  I  might  have 
it."  And  he  deposited  a  fat  black  retriever  puppy  at  Kan's 
feet.  The  little  beast  made  a  clumsy  rush  at  her,  and  then 
rolled  over  on  its  back.  Kan  took  it  up  in  high  delight,  and 
showed  it  to  her  mother. 

"Isn't  it  good  of  Gar,  mother?  and  when  we  all  wanted  a 
dog  so!  We  have  never  had  a  pet  since  poor  old  Juno  died; 
and  this  will  be  such  a  splendid  fellow  when  he  grows  up. 
Look  at  his  head  and  curly  black  paws;  and  what  a  dear 
solemn  face  he  has  got!" 

"  1  am  glad  you  like  him,"  replied  Edgar,  who  was  now 
perfectly  at  his  ease.  "  We  have  christened  him  '  Laddie.'  He 
is  the  handsomest  puppy  of  the  lot,  and  our  man  Jake  says  he 
is  perfectly  healthy."    And  then,  as  Kan  cut  him  some  cake. 


98  '  NOT    LIKE    OTHEB    GIRLS. 

he  proceeded  to  enlighten  her  on  the  treatment  of  this  valu- 
able animal. 

The  arrival  of  "  Laddie  **  made  quite  a  diversion,  and,  when 
the  good-byes  vs^ere  all  said,  Nan  took  the  little  animal  in  her 
arms  and  went  with  Phillis  for  the  last  time  to  gather  flowers 
in  the  Longmead  garden,  and  when  the  twilight  came  on  the 
three  girls  went  slowly  through  the  village,  bidding  farewell  to 
their  old  haunts. 

It  was  all  very  sad,  and  nobody  slept  much  that  night  in 
the  cottage.  Nan's  tears  were  shed  very  quietly,  but  they  fell 
thick  and  fast. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  it  is  hard — hard!"  thought  the  poor  girl,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  the  pillow;  "  but  I  have  not  let  you  know  the 
day,  so  you  will  not  be  thinking  of  us.  I  would  not  pain  you 
for  worlds,  Dick,  not  more  than  I  can  help."  And  then  she 
dried  her  eyes  aud  told  herself  that  she  must  be  brave  for  all 
their  sakes  to-morrow;  but,  for  all  her  good  resolutions,  sleep 
would  not  come  to  her  any  more  than  it  did  to  Phillis,  who  lay 
open-eyed  and  miserable  until  morning. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

**I   MUST  HAVE   GRACE." 

When"  the  Reverend  Archibald  Drummond  was  nominated 
to  the  living  of  Hadleigh  in  Sussex,  it  was  at  once  understood 
by  his  family  that  he  had  achieved  a  decided  success  in  life. 

Hadleigh  until  very  recently  had  been  a  perpetual  curacy, 
and  the  perpetual  curate  in  charge  had  lived  in  the  large, 
shabby  house  with  the  green  door  on  the  Braidwood  Road,  as 
it  was  called.  There  had  been  some  talk  of  a  new  vicarage, 
but  as  yet  the  first  brick  had  not  been  laid,  the  building  com- 
mittee had  fallen  out  on  the  question  of  the  site,  a?jd  nothing 
had  been  definitely  arranged;  there  was  a  good  deal  of  talk, 
too,  about  the  church  restoration,  but  at  the  present  moment 
nothing  had  been  done. 

Mr.  Drummond  had  not  been  disturbed  in  his  mind  by  the 
delay  of  the  building  committee  in  the  matter  of  the  new 
vicarage,  but  on  the  topic  of  the  church  restoration  he  had 
been  heard  to  say  very  bitter  things — far  too  bitter,  it  was 
thought,  to  proceed  from  the  lips  of  such  a  new-comer.  It  is 
not  always  wise  to  be  outspoken,  and  when  Mr.  Drumn-j^nd 
expressed  himself  a  little  too  frankly  on  the  ugliness  of  the 
sacred  edifice,  which  until  lately  had  been  a  chapel-of-ease,  he 
)iad  caused  a  great  deal  of  disBatisfactiou  iu  the  minds  of  his 


K6t  like  other  girls.  9& 

hearers;  but  when  the  young  vicar,  still  strongly  imbued  with 
the  beauties  of  Oxford  architecture,  had  looked  round  blankly 
on  the  great  square  pews  and  galleries,  and  then  at  the  wooden 
pulpit,  and  the  Ten  Commandments  that  adorned  the  east 
end,  he  was  not  quite  so  sure  in  his  mind  that  his  position  was 
as  enviable  as  that  of  other  men. 

Church  architecture  was  his  hobby,  and,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  he  was  a  little  "  High  "  in  his  views;  without  attach- 
ing himself  to  the  Ultra-Ritualistic  party,  he  was  still  strongly 
impregnated  with  many  of  their  ideas;  he  preferred  Gregorian 
to  Anglican  chants,  and  would  have  had  no  objection  to  in- 
cense if  his  diocese  could  have  been  brought  to  appreciate  it 
too. 

An  oriiate  service  was  decidedly  to  his  taste.  It  was,  there- 
fore, a  severe  mortification  when  he  found  himself  compelled 
to  minister  Sunday  after  Sunday  in  a  building  that  was  ugly 
enough  for  a  conventicle,  and  to  listen  to  the  florid  voices  of 
a  mixed  choir,  instead  of  the  orderly  array  of  men  and  boys 
in  white  surplices  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  If  he 
had  been  combative  by  nature — one  who  loved  to  gird  his 
armor  about  him  and  to  plunge  into  every  sort  of  nicUe—\\Q 
would  have  rejoiced  after  a  fashion  at  the  thought  of  the 
work  cut  out  for  him,  of  bringing  order  and  beauty  out  of 
this  chaos;  but  he  was  by  nature  too  impatient.  He  would 
have  condemned  and  destroyed  instead  of  trying  to  renovate. 

"  Why  not  build  a  new  church  at  once?"  he  said,  with  a 
certain  youthful  intolerance  that  made  people  angry.  "  Never 
mind  the  vicarage;  the  old  house  will  last  my  time;  but  a 
place  like  this — a  rising  place — ought  to  have  a  church  worthy 
of  it.  It  will  be  money  thrown  away  to  restore  this  one,'' 
finished  the  young  vicar,  looking  round  him  with  sorely 
troubled  eyes;  and  it  was  this  outspoken  frankness  that  had 
lost  him  popularity  at  first. 

But,  if  the  nQ\y  vicar  had  secret  cause  for  discontent,  in  the 
Drummond  family  there  was  nothing  but  the  sweetness  of 
triumph. 

"  Archie  has  never  given  me  a  moment's  trouble  from  his 
birth,"  his  proud   mother  was  wont   to  declare;  and  it  must 
.be  owned  that  the  young  man  had  done  very  fairly  for  him- 
self. 

There  had  been  plenty  of  anxiety  in  the  Drummond  house- 
hold while  Archibald  was  enjoying  his  first  Oxford  term. 
Things  had  come  to  a  climax:  his  father,  who  was  a  Leeds 
manufacturer,  had  failed  most  utterly,  and  to  a  large  amount. 
Tbe  firm  of  Drummomi  &  D.ummoud,  ouce  known  as  a  most 


iOd  iSrOf    LIKE    OTHER    GlRtg. 

respectable  and  reliable  firm,  had  come  suddenly,  but  not  un- 
expectedly, to  the  ground;  and  Archibald  Drummond  the  elder 
had  been  compelled  to  accept  a  managership  in  the  very  firm 
that,  by  competition  and  under- selling,  had  helped  to  ruin 
him. 

It  was  a  heavy  trial  to  a  man  of  Mr.  Drumniond's  proud 
temperament;  but  he  went  through  with  it  in  a  tough,  dogged 
way  that  excited  his  wife's  admiration.  True,  his  bread  was 
bitter  to  him  for  a  long  time,  and  the  sweetness  of  life,  as  he 
told  himself,  was  over  for  him;  but  he  had  a  large  family  to 
maintaai,  sons  and  daughters  growing  up  around  him,  and 
the  youngest  was  not  yet  six  months  old;  under  such  circum- 
stances a  mnn  may  be  induced  to  put  his  pride  in  his  pocket. 

"  Your  father  has  grown  quite  gray,  and  has  begun  to 
stoop.  It  makes  my  heart  quite  ache  to  see  him  sometimes,'^ 
Mrs.  Drummond  wrote  to  her  eldest  son;  "  but  he  never  says 
a  word  to  any'of  us.  He  just  goes  through  with  it  day  after 
day." 

At  that  time  Arcliie  was  her  great  comfort.  He  had  begun 
to  make  his  own  way  early  in  life,  understanding  from  the 
first  that  his  parents  could  do  very  little  for  him.  He  had 
worked  well  at  school,  and  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  one  or 
two  scholarships.  When  his  university  life  commenced,  and 
the  household  at  Leeds  became  sti-aitened  in  their  circum- 
stances, he  determined  not  to  encumber  them  with  his  pres- 
ence. 

He  soon  became  known  in  his  college  as  a  reading-man  and 
a  steady  worker;  he  was  fortunate,  too,  in  obtaining  pupils 
for  the  long  vacation.  By  and  by  he  became  a  fellow  and 
tutor  of  his  college,  and  before  he  was  e'ght-and-twenty  the 
living  of  Harlleigh  was  offered  to  him.  It  was  not  at  all  a  rich 
living — not  being  worth  more  than  three  hundred  a  year — and 
some  of  his  Oxford  friends  would  have  dissuaded  him  from 
accepting  it;  but  Archibald  Drummond  was  not  of  thtir  opin- 
ion. Oxford  did  not  suit  his  constitution;  he  was  never  well 
tnere.  Sussex  air,  and  especially  the  sea-side,  would  give  him 
just  the  tone  he  required.  He  liked  the  big,  old-fashioned 
house  that  would  be  allotted  to  him.  He  coukl  take  pupils 
and  add  to  his  income  in  that  way;  at  present  he  had  liis  fel- 
lowship. It  was  only  in  the  event  of  his  marriage  that  his  in- 
come might  not  be  found  sutficient.  At  the  present  moment 
he  had  no  matrimonial  intentions;  there  was  only  one  thing 
on  which  ho  was  d^-termined,  an.l  that  was,  that  Grace  must 
live  With  him  and  keep  his  house. 

Grace  was  the  sister  next  to  him  in  age.     Mattie — or  Ma- 


^OT    LIKE    OTHER    GtRLS.  lOl 

iilda,  as  her  mother  often  called  her — was  the  eldest  of  the 
family,  and  was  two  years  older  than  Archibald.  Between 
him  and  Grace  there  were  two  brothers,  Fred  and  Clyde,  and 
beyond  Grace  a  string  of  girls,  ending  in  Dottie,  who  was  not 
yet  ten.  Archibald  used  to  forget  their  ages  and  mix  them 
up  in  the  most  helpless  way;  he  was  never  quite  sure  if  Isabel 
were  eighteen  or  twenty,  or  whether  Clara  or  Susie  came  nest. 
He  once  forgot  Laura  altogether,  and  was  only  reminded  of 
her  existence  by  the  shock  of  surprise  at  seeing  the  awkward* 
looking,  ungainly  girl  standing  before  him,  looking  shyly  up 
in  his  face. 

Archibald  was  never  quite  alive  to  the  blessing  of  having 
seven  sisters,  none  of  them  with  any  pretension  to  beauty,  un- 
less it  were  Grace,  though  he  was  obliged  to  confess  on  his  last 
visit  to  Leeds  that  Isabel  was  certainly  passable  looking.  He 
tried  to  take  a  proper  amount  of  interest  in  them,  and  be 
serenely  unconscious  of  their  want  of  grace  and  polish;  but 
the  effort  was  too  manifest,  and  neither  Clara  nor  Susie  nor 
Laura  regarded  their  grave  elder  brother  with  any  lively  de- 
gree of  atfeotion.  Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  somewhat  stern  and 
exacting  mother,  but  sbe  was  never  so  difficult  to  please  as 
when  her  eldest  son  was  at  home. 

"  Home  is  never  so  comfortable  when  Archie  is  in  it,"  Susie 
would  grumble  to  her  favorite  confidante,  Grace.  "Every 
one  is  obliged  to  be  on  their  best  behavior;  and  yet  mother 
finds  fault  from  morning  to  night.  Dottie  is  crying  now  be- 
cause sbe  has  been  scolded  for  coming  down  to  tea  in  a  dirty 
pinafore.'' 

"  Oh,  hush,  Susie  dear!  you  ought  not  to  say  such  things," 
returned  Grace,  in  her  quiet  voice. 

Poor  Grace!  these  visits  of  Archie  were  her  only  pleasures. 
iThe  brother  and  sister  were  devoted  to  each  other.  In 
Archie's  eyes  not  one  of  the  others  was  to  be  compared  to  her; 
.and  in  this  he  was  perfectly  right. 

Grace  Drummond  was  a  tall,  sweet-looking  girl  of  two-and- 
twenty — not  pretty,  except  in  her  brother's  opinion,  but  pos- 
sessing a  soft,  fair  comeliness  that  made  her  pleasant  to  look 
upon.  In  voice  and  manner  she  was  extremely  quiet — almost 
grave;  and  only  those  who  lived  with  her  had  any  idea  of  the 
repressed  strength  and  energy  of  her  character,  and  the  almost 
masculine  clearness  of  intellect  that  lay  under  the  soft  ex- 
terior. One  side  of  her  nature  was  hidden  from  every  one  but 
her  brother,  and  to  him  only  revealed  by  intermittent  flashes, 
;and  that  was  the  passionate  absorption  of  her  affection  in 
,Jiim.     To  her  parents  she  was  dutiful  and  submissive,  but 


10^  irOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIEL^. 

wheu  she  grew  up  the  yoke  of  her  mother's  will  was  felt  to  be 
oppressive.  Her  father's  nature  was  more  in  sympathy  with 
her  own;  but  even  with  him  she  was  reticent.  She  was  good 
to  ail  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  especially  devoted  to  Dot- 
tie;  but  her  affection  for  them  was  so  strongly  pervaded  by 
anxiety  and  the  overweight  of  responsibility  that  its  pains 
overbalanced  its  pleasures.  She  loved  them,  and  toiled  in 
their  service  from  morning  to  night;  but  as  yet  she  had  not 
felt  herself  rewarded  by  any  decided  success.  But  in  Archie 
her  pride  was  equal  to  her  love;  she  was  critical,  and  her 
standard  was  somewhat  high,  but  he  satisfied  her.  What 
other  people  recognized  as  faults,  she  regarded  as  the  merest 
blemishes.  Without  being  absolutely  faultless,  which  was  of 
course  impossible  in  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  he  was  still 
as  near  perfection,  she  thought,  as  he  could  be.  Perhaps  her 
affection  for  him  blinded  her  somewhat,  and  cast  a  sort  of  lov- 
ing glamour  over  her  eyes;  for  it  must  be  owned  that  Archi- 
bald was  by  no  means  extraordinary  in  either  goodness  or 
cleverness.  From  a  boy  she  had  watched  his  career  with  daz- 
zled eyes,  rejoicing  in  every  stroke  of  success  that  came  to  him 
as  though  it  were  her  own.  Her  own  life  was  dull  and  labori- 
ous, spent  in  the  overcrowded  house  in  Lowder  otreet,  but  the 
forgot  it  in  following  his.  Now  and  then  bright  days  came  to 
her — few  in  number,  but  absolutely  golden,  when  this  dearly 
loved  brother  came  on  a  brief  visit — wheu  they  had  !?natches 
of  delicious  talk  in  the  empty  school-room  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  or  he  took  her  out  with  him  for  a  long,  quiet  walk. 

Mrs.  Drummond  always  made  some  dry,  sarcastic  remark 
when  they  came  in,  for  she  was  secretly  jealous  of  Archie's 
affection  f  ^r  Grace.  Hers  was  rather  a  monopolizing  nature, 
and  she  would  willingly  have  had  the  first  share  in  her  son's 
affections.  It  somewhat  displeased  her  to  see  him  so  wrapped 
up  in  the  one  sister  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  others,  as  she 
told  him. 

"  1  think  you  might  have  asked  Matilda  or  Isabel  to  ac- 
company you.  The  poor  girls  never  see  anything  of  you, 
Archie,"  she  would  say  plaintively  to  her  son.  But  to  Grace 
she  would  speak  somewhat  sharply,  bidding  her  fulfill  some 
neglected  duty,  which  another  could  as  well  have  performed, 
and  making  her  at  once  understand  by  her  manner  that  sho 
was  to  blame  in  leaving  Mattie  at  home. 

"  Mother,"  Archibald  said  to  her  one  day,  when  she  had 
spoken  with  unusual  severity,  and  the  poor  girl  had  retreated 
from  the  room,  feeling  as  though  she  had  been  convicted  of 
selfishness,  "  we  must  settle  the  matter  about  which  I  SDok© 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  108 

to  you  last  night.  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  eyer  since. 
Mattie  wiJl  not  do  at  all.     1  must  have  Grace!" 

Mrs.  Drunimoud  looked  up  from  her  meiidiug,  and  her  thin 
lips  settled  into  a  hard  line  that  they  always  took  when  her 
mind  was  made  up  on  a  disagreeable  subject.  She  had  a  pina- 
fore belonging  to  Dottie  in  her  hand;  there  was  a  jagged  rent 
in  it,  and  she  sighed  impatiently  as  she  put  it  down;  though 
ghe  was  not  a  woman  who  shirked  any  of  her  maternal  duties, 
she  had  often  been  heard  to  say  that  her  work  was  never  done, 
and  that  her  mending-basket  was  never  empty. 

*'  But  if  I  can  not  spare  Grace,"  she  said,  ralher  shortly,  as 
she  meditated  another  lecture  to  the  delinquent  DoUie. 

"But,  mnther,  you  must  spare  her!"  returned  her  son, 
eagerly,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  watching 
her  rapid  manipulations  with  apparent  interest.  "  Look  here; 
1  am  quite  in  earnest.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  having  Grace. 
She  is  just  the  one  to  manage  a  clergyman's  household.  She 
would  be  my  right  hand  in  the  parish." 

"  She  is  our  right  hand  too,  Archie;  but  I  suppose  we  are 
to  cut  it  off,  that  it  may  benefit  you  and  your  parish." 

Mrs.  Drummond  seldom  spoke  so  sharply  to  her  eldest  son; 
but  this  request  of  his  was  grievous  to  her. 

"  1  think  Grace  ought  to  be  considered,  too,  in  the  mat- 
ter,^' he  returned,  somewhat  sullenly.  "  She  works  harder 
than  any  paid  governess,  and  gets  small  thanks  for  her 
trouble." 

"  She  does  her  duty,"  returned  Mrs.  Drummond,  coldly — 
she  very  seldnm  praised  any  of  her  children — "  but  not  more 
than'Mattie  does  hers.  You  are  prejudiced  strongly  against 
your  sister,  Archie;  you  are  not  fair  to  her  in  any  way.  Mat- 
tie  is  a  capital  little  housekeeper.  She  is  economical,  and  full 
of  clever  contrivances.  It  is  not  as  though  I  a^ked  you  to  try 
Isabel.  She  is  well  enough,  too,  in  her  way,  but  a  little 
fligbty,  and  rather  too  pretty,  perhaps—"  but  here  a  laugh 
from  Archie  grated  on  her  ear. 

"  Too  pretty!  what  an  absurd  idea!  The  girl  is  passable 
looking,  and  I  will  not  deny  that  she  has  improved  lately; 
but,  mother,  there  is  not  one  of  the  girls  that  can  be  called 
pretty  except  Grace." 

Mrs.  Drummond  winced  at  her  son's  outspoken  words.  The 
plainness  of  her  daughters  was  a  sore  subject. 

She  had  never  understood  whv  her  girls  were  so  ordinary 
looking.  She  had  been  a  handsome  girl  in  her  time,  and  was 
still  a  fine-looking  woman.  Her  husband,  too,  had  had  a  fair 
^mouut  of  good  looks,  and,  though  he  stooped,  was  still  ad' 


104  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

mirable  in  her  eyes.  The  boys,  too,  were  thorouglily  fine  fel- 
lows. Fred  wus  decideilly  handsome,  and  so  was  Clyde;  and 
as  for  her  favorite  Arcliie,  Mrs.  Drururuoad  glanced  up  at 
him  as  he  stood  beside  her. 

He  certainly  looked  a  model  young  clergyman.  His  feat- 
ures were  good,  but  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was  quite  hidden^ 
by  the  fair  mustache  and  the  soft  silky  beard.  Ho  had- 
thoughtful  gray  eyes,  which  could  look  as  severe  as  hers  some- 
times; and,  though  his  shoulders  were  somewhat  too  sloping, 
there  could  be  no  fault  found  with  his  figure.  He  was  as  nice 
looking  as  possible,  she  thought,  and  no  mother  could  have 
been  better  satisfied.  But  why,  with  the  exception  of  Grace 
and  Isabel,  were  her  girls  so  deficient  in  outward  graces?  It 
could  not  be  denied  that  they  were  very  ordinary  girls.  Laura 
was  overgrown  and  freckled,  and  had  red  hair;  Susie  was 
sickly  looking,  and  so  short-sighted  that  they  feared  she  would 
have  to  take  to  spectacles;  and  Clara  was  stolid  and  heavy 
looking,  one  of  those  thick-set  girls  that  dress  never  seems  to» 
improve.  Dottie  had  a  funny  little  face;  but  one  could  not 
judge  of  her  yet.  And  Mattie — Mrs.  Drummond  sighed  again 
as  she  thought  of  her  eldest  daughter — Mattie  was  thirty;  and 
her  mother  felt  she  would  never  marry.  It  was  not  that  she 
was  so  absolutely  plain — people  who  liked  her  said  Mattie  had 
a  nice  face;  but  she  was  so  abrupt,  so  uncouth  in  her  awk- 
wardness, such  a  stranger  to  the  minor  morals  of  life,  that  it 
would  be  a  wonder  indeed  if  she  could  find  favor  in  any  man's 
eyes. 

"  I  do  think  you  are  too  hard  on  your  sisters,"  returned 
Mrs.  Drumniond,  stung  by  her  son's  remark.  "  Isabel  4vas 
very  much  admired  at  her  "  st  party  last  week.  Mrs.  Coch-- 
rane  told  me  so,  and  so  did  Miss  Blair."  She  could  have  add^ 
ed  that  her  maternal  interest  had  been  strongly  stirred  by  the 
mention  of  a  certain  Mr.  Ellis  Burton,  who  she  had  under- 
stood had  paid  a  great  deal  of  attention  that  evenii]g  to  Isa- 
bel, and  who  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  wealthy  manufacturer  in 
Leeds.  But  Mrs.  Drummond  had  some  good  old-fashioned 
notions,  and  one  of  these  was  never  to  speak  on  such  delicate 
subjects  as  the  matrimonial  prospects  of  her  daughters;  in~ 
deed,  she  often  thanked  Heaven  she  was  not  a  match-making 
mother — which  was  as  well,  under  the  circumstances. 

"  Well,  well,  we  are  not  talking  about  Isabel,"  returned  hei*' 
son,  impatiently.  *'  The  question  is  about  Grace,  mother.  I 
really  do  wish  very  much  that  you  and  my  father  would, 
stretch  a  point  for  me  here.  1  want  her  more  than  I  cait 
say." 


K6T    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  105 

*'  But,  Archie,  you  must  be  reasonable.  Just  think  a  mo^ 
tneut.  Your  father  can  not  afford  to  send  the  girls  to  school, 
or  to  pay  for  a  good  finishing  governess.  We  iiave  given 
Grace  every  advantage;  and  just  as  she  is  mailing  herself 
really  useful  to  me  in  the  school-room,  you  want  to  deprive 
me  of  her  services."' 

"  You  know  I  offered  to  pay  for  Clara's  schooling,"  re- 
turned her  son,  reproachfully.  "  She  is  more  than  sixteen,  is 
she  not?     Surely  Mattie  could  teach  the  others?" 

But  Mrs.  Druinmond's  clear,  concisd  voice  interrupted  him. 

"  Archie,  how  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?  You  k?iow  poor 
Mattie  was  never  good  at  book-learning.  She  would  hardly 
do  for  Dottie.     Ask  Grace,  if  you  doubt  my  word.'* 

"  Of  course  I  do  not  doubt  it,  mother,"  in  rather  an  ag- 
gravated voice,  for  he  felt  he  was  having  the  worst  of  the 
argument. 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  beh'eve  me  when  I  tell  you  the  thing 
you  ask  is  impossible?"  replied  his  mother,  more  calmly.  "1 
am  sorry  for  you  if  you  are  disappointed,  Archie;  but  you  un- 
dervalue Mattie — you  do  indeed.  She  will  make  you  a  nice 
little  housekeeper,  and  though  she  is  not  clever,  she  is  so 
amiable  that  nothing  ever  puis  her  out;  and  visiting  the  poor 
and  sick-nursing  are  nmre  in  her  line  than  in  Grace's.  Mrs. 
Blair  finds  her  invaluable.  She  wanted  her  for  one  of  her  dis- 
trict visitors,  and  I  said  she  had  too  much  to  do  at  home." 

Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Mrs.  Bhiir  was  the  wife  of 
the  vicar  of  All  Saints',  where  the  Drummonds  attended,  and 
from  a  hoy  she  had  been  his  pet  aversion.  She  was  a  bustling, 
managing  woman,  and  of  course  Mattie  was  just  to  her  taste. 
He  did  not  see  much  use  in  continuing  the  conversation;  with 
all  his  affection  for  his  mother — and  she  was  better  loved  by 
her  sons  than  by  her  daughters — he  knew  her  to  be  as  im- 
movable as  a  rock  when  she  had  once  made  up  her  mind.  He 
thought  at  first  of  appealing  to  his  father  on  Grace's  behalf, 
but  abandoned  this  notion  after  a  few  minutes'  reflection. 
His  father  wasdecidtdand  firm  in  all  matters  relating  to  busi- 
ness, but  for  majiy  years  past  he  had  abandoned  the  domestic 
reins  to  his  wife's  capable  hands.  Perhaps  he  had  proved  her 
worth  and  prudence;  perhaps  he  thought  the  management  of 
seven  daughters  too  much  for  any  man.  Anyhow,  he  inter- 
fered less  and  less  as  the  years  went  on;  and  if  at  any  time  he 
differed  from  his  wife,  she  could  always  talk  him  over,  as  her 
son  v/ell  knew. 

When  the  subject  had  been  first  mooted  in  the  household, 
he  had  said  a  word  or  two  to  his  father,  and  had  found  him 


106  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    OlRtS. 

very  reluct.ant  to  entertain  the  idea  of  parting  with  Grace. 
She  was  his  favorite  daughter,  and  he  thought  how  he  should 
miss  her  when  he  came  home  weary  and  jaded  at  night. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  do  at  all/*  he  had  said,  in  an  unde- 
cided, dissatisfied  tone.  "  Won't  one  of  the  other  girls  serve 
your  turn?  There's  Mattie,  or  tliat  little  monkey  Isabel,  she 
is  as  pert  and  lively  as  possible.  But  Grace;  why,  she  is 
every  one's  right  hand.  What  would  the  mother  or  the  young 
ones  do  without  her?" 

No;  it  was  no  use  appealing  to  his  father,  Archie  thought, 
and  miglit  only  make  mischief  in  the  house.  He  and  Grace 
must  make  up  their  mind  to  a  few  more  years'  separation. 
He  turned  away  after  his  motlier's  last  speech,  and  finally 
left  the  room  without  saying  another  word.  There  was  a 
cloud  on  his  face,  and  Mrs.  Drummond  saw  that  he  was  much 
displeased;  but,  though  she  sighed  again  as  she  took  up  a 
pair  of  Clyde's  socks  and  inspected  them  carefully,  there  was 
no  change  in  her  resolution  that  Mattie,  and  not  Grace,  should 
go  to  the  vicarage  for  the  year's  visit;  that  was  all  Archie  had 
asked. 

There  are  mothers  and  mothers  in  this  world — some  who  are 
capable  of  sacrificing  their  children  to  Moloch,  who  will  barter 
their  own  flesh  and  blood  in  return  for  some  barren  heritage 
or  other.  There  are  those  who  will  exact  from  those  depend- 
ent on  them  heavy  tithes  of  daily  patience  and  uncomplaining 
drudgery;  while  others,  who  are  "  mothers  indeed,"  give  all, 
asking  for  nothing  in  return. 

Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  good  woman.  She  had  many  virt- 
ues and  few  faults.  She  was  lady-like,  industrious  and  self- 
denying  in  her  own  personal  comforts,  an  exemplary  wife,  and 
a  tolerant  mistress;  but  she  was  better  understood  by  her  sons 
than  by  her  daughters. 

Her  maternal  instincts  were  very  strong,  and  no  mother  had 
more  delighted  in  her  nursery  than  she  had  in  hers.  As  long 
as  there  was  a  baby  in  the  house  the  tenderness  of  her  love 
was  apparent  enough.  She  wore  herself  out  tending  her  in- 
fants, and  no  one  ever  heard  her  say  a  harsh  word  in  her 
nursery. 

But  as  her  children  grew  up,  there  was  much  clashing  of 
wills  in  the  household.  Her  sous  did  not  fear  her  in  the  least; 
hut  with  her  daughters  it  was  otherwise.  They  felt  the  moth- 
er's strong  will  repressive;  it  threatened  to  dwarf  their  in- 
dividuality and  cramp  that  free  growth  that  is  so  necessarj'  to 
young  thuigs. 

Dottie,  who,  by  virtue  of  being  the  last  baby,  had  had  more 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  107 

than  her  fair  auioutifc  of  petting,  was  only  just  beginning  to 
learn  her  lesson  of  uii^uestioniiig  obedience;  aiiJ,  as  she  A'as 
somewhat  spoiled,  the  lesson  was  a  hard  one.  But  Laura  and 
Susie  and  Clara  had  nol  yet  found  out  tliat  tlieir  mother  loved 
thi'm  and  wished  to  be  their  friend;  they  were  timid  and  re- 
served with  her,  and  took  all  their  troubles  to  Grace.  Even 
Mattie,  who  was  her  first-born,  and  who  was  old  enough  to  be 
her  mother's  companion,  quailed  and  blushed  like  a  child  un- 
der the  dry  caustic  sijeeches  at  which  Clyde  and  Fred  only 
laughed. 

'*  Ton  don't  understand  the  mother.  Her  bark  is  worse 
than  her  bite,"  Clyde  would  say  to  his  sister,  somefiines. 
"  She  is  an  a^vfuily  clever  woman,  and  it  riles  her  to  see  her- 
self surrounded  by  such  a  set  of  ninnies.  Now,  don't  sulk, 
Bi^lle.  You  know  Mattie's  a  duffer  compared  to  Grace;  aren't 
you.  Matt?" 

At  which  truism  poor  Mattie  would  hang  her  head. 

"  Yes,  Clyde;  I  know  I  am  dreadfully  stupid  oometimes, 
and  that  makes  mother  angry." 

Mrs.  JJrummond  often  complained  bitterly  of  her  daughters' 
want  of  confidence  in  her,  butshenes'er  blamed  herself  for  tiie 
barrier  that  seemed  between  them.  She  was  forever  asserting 
maternal  authority,  when  such  questions  might  have  been 
safely  laid  to  rest  between  her  and  her  grown-up  daughters. 
Mrs.  Challoner's  oneness  of  sympathy  wiih  her  girls,  Ijer  lax 
discipline,  her  perfect  equality,  would  have  t^hocked  a  wonjan 
of  Mrs.  Drummond's  caliber.  She  would  not  have  tolerated 
or  understood  it  for  a  moment. 

"  My  girls  must  do  as  I  wish,"  was  a  very  ordinary  spfech 
in  her  mouth.  "  I  always  do  as  mv  girls  wi^h,"  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  would  have  said.  And  indeed  the  two  mothers  were  ut- 
terly dissimilar;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  Challoner 
household,  was  not  far  happier  than  the  family  in  Loftder 
Street, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

*'  YOF  CAN  DARE  TO  TELL  ME  THESE  THINGs!'* 

Archibald  Druio»ond  had  left  his  mother's  presence  with 
a  cloud  on  his  brow.  He  had  plenty  of  filial  affection  for  her, 
but  it  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  found  her  too  much 
for  him.  She  had  often  angered  him  before  by  her  treatment 
of  Grace,  but  he  had  told  himself  that  she  was  his  mother, 
that  a  man  could  have  but  one,  and  so  he  had  brought  himself 
to  forgive  her.     But  this  time  she  had  set  herself  against  the 


108  KOT    LIKE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

cherished  plan  of  years.  He  had  always  looked  forward  to  the 
time  when  he  could  have  Grace  to  live  with  him;  they  had 
made  all  sorts  of  schemes  together,  and  all  their  talk  had  con- 
centrated itself  toward  this  point;  the  disappointment  would 
place  a  sort  of  blaukness  before  them;  they  would  t)e  working 
separately,  far  away  from  each  other,  and  the  distance  would 
not  be  bridged  for  years. 

fle  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  dark,  narrow  hall,  thinking 
intently  over  all  this,  and  then  he  went  slowly  upstairs.  He 
knew  where  he  should  find  Grace.  His  mother  had  paid  an 
unwonted  visit  to  the  school-room  during  their  walk,  and  on 
their  return  had  expressed  herself  with  some  degree  of  sharp- 
ness on  the  disorder  she  had  found  there.  Grace  would  be 
busily  engaged  in  putting  everything  to  rights.  It  was  Clara's 
business,  but  she  had  gone  out,  and  had,  as  usual,  forgotten 
all  about  it.  Grace  had  taken  the  blame  upon  herself,  of 
course;  she  was  always  shielding  her  younger  sisters. 

Everything  was  done  when  he  entered  the  room,  and  Grace 
was  sitting  by  the  window,  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
indulging  in  a  few  minutes'  rare  idleness.  She  looked  up 
eagerly  as  her  brother  made  his  appearance. 

The  school-room  was  a  large,  bare-looking  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  with  two  narrow  windows  looking  out  over  a 
lively  prospect  of  roofs  and  chimney-pots.  Mrs.  Drummond 
had  done  her  utmost  to  give  it  an  air  of  comfort,  but  it  was, 
on  the  whole,  a  dull,  uncomfortable  apartment,  in  spite  of 
the  faded  Turkey  carpet,  and  the  curtains  that  had  once  been 
so  handsome,  but  had  now  merged  into  unwholesome  neutral 
tints. 

Laura,  who  was  the  wit  of  the  family,  had  nicknamed  it  the 
Hospital,  for  it  seemed  to  be  a  receptacle  for  all  the  maimed 
and  rickety  chairs  of  the  household,  footstools  in  a  dilapidated 
condition,  and  odd  pieces  of  lumber  that  had  no  other  place. 
Archibald  regarded  it  with  a  troubled  gaze;  somehow,  its 
dinginess  had  never  before  so  impressed  him;  and  then  as  he 
looked  at  his  sister  the  frown  deepened  on  his  face. 

"  Well,  Archie?" 

*'  Oh,  Grace,  it  is  no  use!  I  have  talked  myself  hoarse: 
but  the  mother  is  dead  against  it;  one  might  as  well  try  to 
move  a  rock.  We  shall  have  to  make  up  our  minds  to  bear 
our  disappointment  as  well  as  we  can." 

"I  knew  it  was  hopeless  from  the  first,''  returned  Grace, 
slowly;  but,  as  she  spoke,  a  sort  of  dimness  and  paleness  crept 
over  her  face,  belying  her  words. 

Ihe  was  young,  ,aud  in  youth  hope  never  dies.     Beyond  th© 


SrOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  109 

gray  daily  horizon  there  is  always  a  possible  gleam,  a  new  tq- 
morrow;  youth  abounds  in  infinite  surprises,  in  probabilities 
which  are  as  large  as  they  are  vague.  Grace  told  herself  that 
she  never  hoped  much  from  Archie's  mission;  yet  when  he 
came  to  her  with  his  ill  success  plainly  stamped  upon  his 
countenance,  the  dying  out  of  her  dream  was  biller  to  her. 

"  1  knew  it  was  hopeless  from  the  first,^'  had  been  her  an- 
swer, and  then  bre&tn  for  further  words  failed  her,  and  she 
sat  motionless,  with  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together,  while 
Archie  placed  himself  on  the  window-seat  beside  her,  and 
looked  out  ruefully  at  the  opposite  chimneys. 

"  Well,  it  was  all  over,  this  dearly  cherished  scheme  of 
theirs;  she  must  go  on  now  with  the  dull  routine  of  daily 
duties,  she  must  stoop  her  neck  afresh  to  the  yoke  she  had 
long  found  so  galling;  this  school-room  must  be  her  world,  she 
must  not  hope  any  longer  for  wider  vistas,  for  more  expansive 
horizons,  for  tasks  that  should  be  more  congenial  to  her,  for 
all  that  was  now  made  impossible. 

Mattie,  not  she,  must  go  and  keep  Archie's  house,  and  here 
for  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes,  the  pain  was  so  bitter;  she 
thought  of  the  old  vicarage,  of  the  garden  where  she  and 
Archie  were  to  have  worked,  of  the  shabby  old  study  where  he 
meant  to  write  his  sermons,  while  she  was  to  sit  beside  him 
with  her  book  or  needle-work,  of  the  evem'ngs  when  he  had 
promised  to  read  to  her,  of  the  walks  they  were  to  have  taken 
together,  of  all  the  dear  delightful  plans  they  had  made. 

And  now  her  mother  had  said  them  nay;  it  was  Mattie  who 
was  to  be  his  housekeeper,  wtio  would  sit  opposite  to  him  and 
pour  out  his  coffee,  who  would  mend  his  socks  and  do  all  the 
thousand  and  one  things  that  a  woman  delights  in  doing  for 
the  mankind  dependent  on  her  for  comfort. 

Mattie  would  visit  his  poor  people,  and  teach  in  the  schools, 
entertain  his  friends  and  listen  to  his  voiae  every  Sunday; 
here  tears  slowly  gathered  under  the  closed  eyelids.  Yes, 
Mattie  would  do  all  that,  but  she  would  not  be  his  chosen 
friend  and  companion;  there  would  be  no  long  charming  talks 
for  her  in  the  study  or  the  sunny  garden;  he  would  be  as 
lonely,  poor  fellow,  in  his  way  as  she  would  be  in  hers,  and  for 
this  her  mother  was  to  blame. 

"  Well,  Gracie,  haven't  you  a  word  to  say?"  asked  her 
brother,  at  last,  surprised  at  her  long  silence. 

"  No,  Archie;  it  does  not  bear  talking  about,"  she  returned, 
so  passionately  that  he  turned  round  to  look  at  her.  "  I  must 
not  even  think  of  it.     I  must  try  and  shut  it  all  out  of  my 


no  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

mini3,  or  I  shall  be  no  good  to  any  one.  But  it  is  hard- 
hard!"  with  a  quiver  of  her  lip. 

"  I  call  it  a  shame  for  my  father  and  mother  to  sacrifice  you 
in  this  way!"  he  burst  out,  moved  to  bitter  indignation  at 
the  sight  of  her  trouble.  "  1  shall  tell  my  father  whatl  tlduk 
about  it  pretty  plainly!" 

But  this  speech  recalled  Grace  to  her  senses: 

"  Oh,  no,  dear!  you  must  do  no  such  thing;  promise  me 
you  will  not.  It  would  be  no  good  at  all;  aud  it  would  only 
make  mother  so  angry.  You  know  he  always  thinks- as  she 
does  about  things,  so  it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  supp  ise  "-- 
with  an  im[)atient  sigh—"  that  I  ought  to  feel  myself  compli- 
mented at  knowing  I  can  not  be  spared.  Some  girls  would  be 
proud  to  feel  themselves  their  mother's  right  hand;  bu"-  to  me 
it  does  not  seem  niucli  of  a  privilege." 

"  Don't  talk  in  that  way,  Grace;  it  makes  me  miser'^ble  to 
hoar  you.  I  am  more  sorry  for  you  than  1  am  for  iiyself, 
and  yet  1  am  sorry  for  myself  too.  If  it  were  not  tb'dt  my 
mother  would  be  too  deeply  offended,  I  would  refuse  tc  have 
Mattie  at  all.  We  never  have  got  on  well  together.  She  is  a 
good  little  thing  in  her  way,  but  her  awkwardness  ant'  left- 
handed  ways  will  worry  me  incessantly.  And  then  we  ha^e  not 
an  idea  in  common—"  but  here  Grace  generously  interp  )sed. 

"  Poor  old  fellow!  as  though  1  did  not  know  all  that,  but 
you  must  not  vent  it  on  poor  Mattie.  She  is  not  to  blaice  for 
our  disappointment.  She  would  gladly  give  it  up  to  me  f  she 
could.  I  know  she  will  do  her  utmost  to  please  you,  A.chie, 
and  she  is  so  good  and  amiable  that  you  must  overlooii  her 
little  failings  and  make  the  best  of  her." 

"It  will  be  rather  difficult  work,  1  am  afraid,"  ret  u-ned 
her  brother,  grinil}'.  "I  shall  always  be  drawing  invilious 
comparisons  l)etweea  you  both,  aud  thinking  what  you  v\ould 
do  in  her  place." 

"All  the  same  you  must  try  and  be  good  to  her  for  my 
sake,  for  1  am  very  fond  of  Mattie,"  she  returned,  gently;  but 
she  could  not  help  feeling  gratified  at  the  assurance  that  he 
would  miss  her.  And  then  she  put  her  hand  on  his  coa"- 
sleevb,  and  stroked  it,  a  favorite  caress  with  her.  "  It  doed 
not  bear  talking  about,  does  it,  Archie.'^  It  only  makes  it  feel 
worse.  I  think  it  must  be  meant  as  a  discipline  for  me,  be- 
cause I  am  so  wicked,  and  that  it  would  not  do  at  all  for  me 
to  be  too  happy."  And  here  she  pressed  his  arm,  aud  looked 
up  in  his  face,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"  No,  you  are  right;  talking  only  makes  it  worse,"  he  re- 
turned, hurriedly;   and  then  La  i.iuoped — for  he  was  a  tail 


Hot    LIKE    OTHER    GIHLS.  11^ 

man— and  kissed  her  pu  the  forehead  just  between  her  eyeS;, 
and  then  walked  to  the  door,  whistling  a  light  air. 

Grace  did  not  think  him  at  all  abrupt  in  thus  breaking  oflL 
the  conversation.  She  had  caught  his  meaning  in  a  moment, 
and  knew  the  whole  business  was  so  painful  to  him  that  he  did 
not  care  to  dwell  on  it.  When  the  tea-bell  rang,  she  prepared 
herself  at  once  to  accompany  him  down-stairs. 

It  was  Archibald's  last  evening  at  home,  and  all  the  family 
were  gathered  round  the  long  tea-table.  Since  Mr.  Drum- 
mond's  misfortunes  late  dinners  had  been  relinquished,  and 
more  homely  habits  prevailed  in  the  household.  Mrs.  Drum- 
moiid  had,  indeed,  apologized  to  her  son  more  than  once  for 
the  simplicity  of  their  mode  of  life. 

"  You  are  accustomed  to  a  late  dinner,  Archie.  1  wish  1 
could  have  managed  it  for  you;  but  your  father  objects  to 
any  alteration  being  made  in  our  usual  habits.^* 

"  He  is  quite  right;  and  I  should  have  been  much  distressed 
if  you  had  thought  such  alteration  necessary,"  returned  her 
sou,  very  much  surprised  at  this  reference  to  his  father.  For 
Mrs.  Drummoud  rarely  consulted  her  husband  on  such  mat- 
ters. In  this  case,  however,  she  had  done  so,  and  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  had  been  unusually  testy — indeed,  affronted — at  such  a 
question  being  put  to  him. 

"  1  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Isabella,"  he  had  replied; 
".but  I  suppose  what  is  good  enough  for  me  is  good  enough 
for  Archie."  And  then  Mrs.  Drummoud  knew  she  had  made 
a  mistake,  for  her  husband  had  felt  bitterly  the  loss  of  his  late 
dinner.  So  Archie  tried  to  fall  in  with  the  habits  of  his  fam- 
ily, and  to  enjoy  the  large  plum  or  seed  cake  that  invariably 
garnished  the  tea-table;  and,  though  he  eat  but  sparingly  of 
the  supper,  which  always  gave  him  indigestion,  Grace  was  his 
only  confiJante  in  the  matter.  Mr.  Drummond,  indeed, 
looked  at  his  son  rather  sharply  once  or  twice,  as  though  he 
suspected  him  of  fastidiousness.  "  I  can  not  compliment  you 
on  your  appetite,"  he  would  say,  as  he  helped  himself  to  cold 
meat;  "  but  perhaps  our  home  fare  is  not  so  templing  as  Ox- 
ford living?" 

"  1  always  say  your  meat  is  unusually  good,"  returned 
Archibald,  amicably.  "  If  there  be  any  fault,  it  is  in  my  ap- 
petite; but  that  Had leigh  air  will  soon  set  right."  But,  though 
he  answered  his  father  after  this  tolerant  fashion,  he  always 
added,  in  a  mental  aside,  that  nine-o'clock  suppers  were  cer- 
tainly barbarous  institutions,  and  peculiarly  deleterious  to  the 
constitution  of  an  Oxford  fellow. 

Mrs.  Drummoud  looked  at  them  both  somewhat  keenly  as 


112  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GTHLSi. 

they  entered.  In  spite  of  her  resolution,  she  was  secretly  un- 
comfortable at  the  thought  that  Archie  was  displeased  with 
her;  her  daughter's  vexation  was  a  burden  that  could  be  more 
easily  borne;  but  her  maternal  heart  yearned  for  some  token 
that  her  boy  was  not  estranged  from  her.  But  no  such  con- 
solation was  to  be  vouchsafed  to  her.  She  had  kept  his  usual 
place  vacant  beside  her;  Archie  showed  no  intention  of  taking 
it.  He  placed  himself  by  his  father,  and  began  talking  to 
him  of  a  change  of  ministry  that  was  impending,  and  which 
would  overthrow  the  Conservative  party.  Mrs.  Drummond, 
who  was  one  of  those  women  who  can  never  be  made  to  take 
any  interest  in  politics,  was  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  talking 
to  Mattie  iu  an  undertone,  for  the  other  boys  never  put  in  an 
appearance  at  this  meal;  but  as  she  talked  she  took  stock  of 
Grace's  pale,  abstracted  looks,  as  she  sat  with  her  plate  before 
her,  not  pretending  to  eat,  and  taking  no  notice  of  Susie  and 
Laura,  who  chatted  busily  across  her. 

It  was  not  a  festive  meal;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  an  un- 
usual air  of  restraint  over  the  whole  party.  The  younger  mem- 
bers felt  instinctively  that  there  was  something  amiss.  Archie 
looked  decidedly  glum;  and  there  was  an  expression  on  the 
mother's  face  that  they  were  not  slow  to  interpret.  No  one 
could  hear  what  it  was  she  was  saying  to  Mattie  that  made  her 
look  so  red  and  nervous  all  at  once;  but  presently  she  ad- 
dressed herself  abruptly  to  her  husband: 

"  It  is  all  settled,  father.  I  have  arranged  with  Archie  that 
Matilda  should  go  down  to  Hadleigh  next  month. ^* 

Archie  stroked  his  beard,  but  did  not  look  up  or  make  any 
remark,  though  poor  Mattie  looked  at  him  beseecliiugly  across 
the  table,  as  though  imploring  a  word.  His  mother  would 
carry  her  point;  but  he  would  not  pretend  for  a  moment  that 
he  was  otherwise  than  displeased,  or  that  Mattie  would  be 
welcome. 

His  silence  attracted  Mr.  Drummond's  attention: 

"  Oh,  what,  you  have  settled  it,  you  say?  1  hope  you  are 
satisfied,  Archie,  and  properly  grateful  to  your  mother  for 
sparing  Mattie.  She  is  to  go  for  a  year.  Well,  it  will  be  a 
grand  change  for  her.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  were 
to  pick  up  a  husband,  Miss  Mattie;"  for  Mr.  Drummond  was 
a  man  who,  in  spite  of  his  cares,  was  not  without  his  joke; 
but,  as  usual,  it  was  instantly  frowned  down  by  his  wife. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  father,  talking  such  nonsense  before  the 
children.  Why  are  you  giggling,  Laura?  It  is  very  un- 
seemly and  ill-behavi'd.  I  hope  no  daughter  of  mine  has 
such  uumaiJenly  notions.     Mattie  is  going  to  Hadleigh  to  be 


ifOt    LIKE    OTHER    GIRtg*  ll^ 

a  comfort  to  her  brother,  and  to  keep  his  house  as  a  clergy- 
man's hojse  ought  to  be  kept." 

*'  Aud  you  are  satisfied,  Archie?"  asked  Mr.  Drummond, 
not  quite  pleased  at  his  wrife's  reprimand^  aud  struck  auen^  by 
his  son's  silence. 

"  I  consider  these  questions  somewhat  unnecessary.  You 
know  my  wishes,  sir,  on  the  subject,  and  my  mother  also," 
was  the  somewhat  uncompromising  remark;  "  but  it  appears 
that  they  are  not  to  be  met  in  this  instance.  1  hope  Mattie 
will  be  comfortable  and  not  miss  her  sisters;"  but  he  did  not 
look  at  the  poor  girl,  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Archie,  I  am  so  sorry!  I  never  meant — "  she  stam- 
mered: but  hei  mother  interrupted  her: 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  you  to  be  sorry  about  anything; 
you  had  far  better  be  silent,  Mattie.  But  you  have  no  tact. 
Father,  if  you  have  finished  your  tea,  I  suppose  you  and  Archie 
are  going  out."  And  then  Archie  rose  from  the  table,  and 
follosved  his  father  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  Isabel's  business  to  put  Dottie  to  bed.  The  other 
girls  had  to  prepare  their  lessons  for  the  next  day,  and  went 
up  to  the  scho>l-room.  Mattie  made  some  excuse,  and  went 
With  them,  and  Mrs.  Drummond  and  Grace  were  le't  alone. 

Grace  had  some  delicate  work  to  finish,  and  she  placed  her- 
self by  the  lamp.  Her  mother  had  returned  to  her  mending- 
basket;  but  as  the  door  closed  upon  Mattie,  she  cleared  her 
throat,  and  looked  at  her  daughter. 

*'  Grace,  1  must  say  I  am  surprised  at  you!" 

"  Why,  mother?"  But  Grace  did  not  look  up  from  the  task 
she  was  running  with  such  fine  even  stitches. 

"  I  am  more  than  surprised!"  continued  .Mrs.  Drummond, 
severely.  "  I  am  disappointed  to  see  in  what  a  bad  spirit  you 
have  received  my  decision.  Idid  not  think  a  daughter  of  mine 
would  have  been  so  blind  to  her  sense  of  duty!" 

"  I  have  said  nothing  to  make  you  think  that." 

"  No,  you  have  said  nothing,  but  looks  can  be  eloquent 
sometimes.  I  am  not  speaking  of  Arnhie,  though  I  can  see 
he  is  put  out  too,  for  he  is  a  man,  and  men  are  not  always 
reasonable;  but  that  you  should  place  yourself  in  such  silent 
opposition  to  my  wishes,  it  is  that  that  shocks  me." 

There  was  an  ominous  sparkle  in  Grace's  gray  eyes,  and  then 
she  deliberately  put  down  her  work  on  the  table.  She  had. 
hoped  that  her  mother  would  have  been  contented  with  her 
victory,  and  not  have  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject.  But  if 
she  were  so  attacked,  she  would  at  least  defend  herself. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  in  this  way,  motherl" 


114  irOT    LIKE    OTHEtl    GIRLS. 

"  No  right,  Grace?"  Mrs.  Drummoiid  could  liardly  believe 
her  ears.  Never  oiice  had  a  daugliter  of  hers  questioned  her 
right  to  anything. 

'  No;  for  ]  liuvesaid  nothing  to  bring  all  this  upon  me.  I 
have  been  perfectly  quiet,  and  have  tried  to  bear  the  bitterness 
ef  my  lisuppointment  as  well  as  1  could.  No  one  is  answer- 
able for  their  looks,  and  1,  at  least,  will  not  plead  guilty  on 
that  score. '^ 

"  Giace,  you  are  answering  me  very  improperly.'* 

"  I  can  not  say  that  I  think  so,  mother.  I  would  have  been 
silent,  if  you  had  permitted  such  silence;  but  when  you  drive 
me  to  speech,  1  must  say  what  1  feel  to  be  the  truth — that  ] 
have  lol  been  well  treated  in  this  matter." 

*'  Grace!"  And  Mrs,  Drummond  paused  in  awful  silences 
Neve,  before  had  a  recusant  daughter  braved  her  to  her  face* 

"  I  have  not  been  well  treated,"  continued  Grace,  firmly, 
*'  in  a  thing  that  concerns  me  more  than  any  one  else.  I  havty 
not  even  been  consulted.  You  have  arranged  it  all,  mother, 
withoil.  reference  to  me  or  my  feelings.  Perhaps  1  ojght  to 
be  gri'teful  for  being  spared  so  painful  a  decision;  but  I  think 
such  a.  .lecision  should  have  been  permitted  to  me.'" 

"  'V  0!\  can  dare  to  tell  me  such  things  to  my  veiy  face!" 

"Wh/ should  I  not  tell  them?"  returned  G /ace,  meeting 
her  notinr's  angry  glance  unflinchingly.  "It  seems  tome 
that  one  thould  speak  the  truth  to  one's  movher.  You  have 
treated  mt  like  a  child;  and  I  have  a  right  to  feel  sore  and  in- 
digniut.  Why  did  you  not  put  the  whole  thing  before  me, 
and  tell  me  that  you  and  my  father  did  not  see  how  you 
coul  I  ispare  me?  Do  you  really  believe  that  J  should  have 
been  s.^  wanting  in  my  sense  of  duty  as  to  follow  my  own 
pleamie?" 

'*  Gr.ice,  I  insist  upon  your  silence!  I  will  not  discuss  the 
matuer  with  yon." 

"  If  you  insist  upon  silence,  you  must  be  obeyed,  mother; 
but  it  is  y  m  who  havf  raised  the  question  between  us.  But 
when  yo.i  { ttack  me  unjusily,  I  must  defend  myself." 

"Youa.-e  forgetting  yourself  strangely.  Your  words  are 
most  lisrespectful  and  unbecoming  in  a  daughter.  You  t.ell 
me  to  my  face  tliat  I  am  unjust — I,  your  mother — because  I 
have  b.>en  co'.npelled  to  thwart  your  wishes." 

"  No.  It 0' -not  because  of  that!"  returned  Grace,  in  a  voice 
of  passicn.'te  pain;  "  why  will  you  misunderstand  me  so?  but 
because  ycu  have  no  faith  in  me.  You  treat  me  like  a  child. 
You  dispute  ray  privilege  to  decide  in  a  matter  that  concerna 
ms  own  hjppiuess.     You  bid  me  work  for  you,  and  you  give 


KTOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  115 

me  no  wage — not  awed  of  praise;  and  because  I  remojiserate 
for  once  iu  my  life,  you  insist  on  my  silence/' 

"  It  seems  that  1  am  lot  to  be  obeyed/' 

"  Oh,  yes;  you  will  bt  obeyed,  mother.  After  to-night  I 
will  not  open  my  lips  tr  offend  you  again.  If  I  have  said 
more  than  I  ought  to  hav  )  said  as  a  daughter,  I  will  ask  your 
pardon  now;  but  I  can  uol  take  back  one  of  my  words.  They 
are  true — true!" 

"  I  must  say  your  apology  is  tardy,  Grace." 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  an  apology;  for,  though  you  have  hurt 
me,  1  must  not  forget  y.ui  are  my  mother.  I  know  my  life 
will  be  harder  after  this,  »jecause  of  what  1  have  said;  and  yet 
I  would  not  take  back  o>ie  of  my  words!" 

"lam  more  displeas<;d  with  you  than  I  can  say,"  returned 
her  mother,  taking  up  her  neglected  work;  and  her  mouth 
looked  stern  and  harl. 

Never  had  her  aspect  been  so  forbidding,  and  yet  never 
had  her  daughter  beared  her  less. 

"  Then,  if  you  are  displeased  with  me  I  will  go  away,''  re- 
plied Grace,  moving  from  her  seat  with  gentle  dignity.  "  I 
wish  you  had  not  cumpelied  me  to  speak,  mother,  and  then  I 
should  not  have  offended  you:  but  as  it  is  there  is  no  help  for 
it."  And  then  she  gathered  up  her  work  and  walked  slowly 
out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Drummond  sat  moodily  in  the  empty  room  that  had 
somehow  never  seemed  so  empty  before.  Her  attitude  was  as 
rigid  and  uncompromising  as  usual;  but  there  was  a  perplexed 
frown  on  her  brow.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  one  of  her 
girls  had  dared  to  assert  her  own  will  and  to  speak  the  truth  to 
her,  and  she  was  utterly  nonplused.  It  was  not  too  much  to 
say  that  she  had  received  a  blow.  Her  justice  and  sense  of 
fairness  had  been  questioned — her  very  maternal  authority 
impugned — and  that  by  one  of  her  own  children!  Mattie,  who 
was  eight  years  older,  would  not  have  ventured  to  cross  her 
mother's  will.  Grace  had  so  dared,  and  she  was  bitterly  angry 
with  her.     And  yet  she  had  never  so  admired  her  before. 

How  honestly  and  bravely  she  had  battled  for  her  rights! 
her  gray  eyes  had  shone  with  fire,  her  pale  cheeks  had  glowed 
with  the  passion  of  her  words;  for  once  iu  her  hfe  the  girl  had 
looked  superbly  handsome. 

"You  have  no  faith  in  me;  you  treat  me  like  a  child." 

Well,  she  was  right;  it  was  no  child,  it  was  a  proud  woman 
who  was  flinging  those  hard  words  at  her.  For  the  first  time 
Mrs.  Drummond  recognized  the  possibility  of  a  will  as  strong 
as  her  own.     In  spite  of  all  her  authority^  Grace  had  been  a. 


116  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS, 

match  for  her  mother:  Mrs.  Drummoad  knew  this,  and  it 
added  fuel  to  her  bitterness. 

"  I  know^  mv  i  fe  will  be  harder  for  what  I  have  said."  Ah, 
Grace  was  right  there;  it  would  be  long  before  her  mother 
would  forgive  her  for  all  those  words,  true  as  they  were;  and 
yet  in  her  heart  she  had  never  so  feared  and  admired  her 
daughter.  Grace  went  up  to  her  own  room,  where  Dottie  was 
asleep  in  a  little  bed  very  near  her  sister's:  it  was  dark  and 
somewhat  cold,  but  the  atmosphere  was  less  frigid  than  the 
parlor  down-stairs.  Grace's  frame  was  trembling  with  the 
force  of  her  emotion;  her  face  was  burning  and  her  hands 
cold.  It  was  restful  and  soothing  to  put  down  her  aching 
head  on  the  hard  window-ledge  and  close  her  eyes  and 
think  out  the  pain!  It  seemed  hours  before  Isabel  came  to 
summon  her  to  supper,  but  she  made  an  excuse  that  she  was 
not  hungry,  and  refused  to  go  down-stairs. 

"  But  you  eat  nothing  at  tea,  and  your  head  is  aching!" 
persisted  Isabel,  who  was  a  brieht,  good-natured  girl,  and,  in 
spite  of  Archie's  strictures,  decidedly  pretty.  "  Do  let  me  bring 
you  something.     Mother  will  not  know  it." 

But  Grace  refused;  she  could  not  eat,  and  the  sight  of  food 
would  distress  her. 

"  Why  not  go  to  bed  at  once,  then?"  suggested  Isabel — 
which  was  certainly  sensible  counsel.  But  Grace  demurred  to 
this;  she  knew  Archie  would  be  up  presently  to  say  good- 
night to  her:  so,  when  Isabel  had  gone,  she  lighted  the  candle, 
shading  it  carefully  from  Dottie's  eyes,  and  then  she  bathed 
her  hot  face,  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  took  up  her  work 
again. 

Archie  found  her  quite  calm  and  busy,  but  he  was  not  so 
easily  deceived. 

*'  Now,  Gracie,  you  have  got  one  of  your  headaches:  it  is 
the  disappointment  and  the  bother,  and  my  going  away  to- 
morrow.    Poor  little  Gracie!" 

*'  Oh,  Archie,  I  feel  as  though  I  shall  never  miss  you  so 
much!"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  throwing  down  her  work  and 
clinging  to  him.  "  When  shall  I  see  your  dear  face  again — 
uot  until  Christmas?" 

"  And  not  then,  I  expect.  I  shall  most  likely  run  down 
some  time  in  January,  and  then  I  shall  try  hard  to  take  you 
back  with  me,  just  for  a  visit.  Mattie  will  be  dull,  and  want- 
ing to  see  some  of  you,  and  I  will  uot  have, one  of  the  others 
until  you  have  been." 

"  I  don't  believe  mother  will  spare  me  evtn  for  that,"  re- 
tained Grace,  with  a -sudden  couviction  that  her  mother's 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  117 

memory  was  retentive,  and  that  she  would  be  punished  in  that 
way  for  her  sins  of  this  evening;  "  but  promise  me,  Archie, 
that  you  will  come,  if  it  be  only  for  a  few  days/* 

"  Oh,  1  will  promise  you  that.  I  can  not  last  longer  with- 
out seeing  you,  Grace!"  And  he  stroked  her  soft  hair  as  she 
still  clung  to  him.  The  next  day  Archibald  bade  his  family 
good-bye;  his  manner  had  not  changed  toward  his  mother, 
and  Mrs.  Drummond  thought  his  kiss  decidedly  cold. 

"  You  will  be  good  to  Mattie,  and  try  to  make  the  poor  girl 
happy;  you  will  do  at  least  as  much  as  this,"  she  said,  detain^ 
ing  him  as  he  was  turning  from  her  to  seek  Grace. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  will  be  good  to  her,"*  he  returned,  indifEerently, 
"  but  1  can  not  promise  that  she  will  not  find  her  life  dull.*' 
And  then  he  took  Grace  in  his  arms,  and  whispered  to  her  to 
be  patient,  and  that  all  would  be  well  one  day;  and  Mrs. 
Drummond,  though  she  did  not  hear  the  whisper,  saw  the 
embrace  and  the  long,  lingering  look  between  the  brother  and 
sister,  and  pressed  her  thin  lips  together  and  went  back  to  her 
parlor  and  mending-basket,  feeling  herself  an  unhappy  mother, 
whose  love  was  not  requited  by'her  children,  and  disposed  to 
be  harder  than  ever  toward  Grace,  who  had  inflicted  this  pain 
on  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    VAN  IN   THE  BRAIDWOOD   ROAD. 

One  bright  July  morning,  Mattie  Drummond  walked 
rapidly  up  the  Braidwood  Eoad,  and,  unlatching  the  green 
door  in  the  wall,  let  herself  into  the  large  square  hall  of  the 
vicarage.  This  morning  it  looked  invitingly  cool,  with  its 
summer  matting  and  big  wicker-work  chairs;  but  Mattie  was 
in  too  great  haste  to  linger;  she  only  stopped  to  disencumber 
herself  of  the  various  parcels  with  which  she  was  laden,  and 
then  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  brother's  study,  and 
without  waiting  for  the  reluctant  "Come  in**  that  always 
answered  her  hasty  raj),  burst  in  upon  him. 

It  was  now  three  months  since  Mattie  had  entered  upon  her 
new  duties,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  Archie's  house- 
keeper had  ralher  a  hard  time  of  it-  As  far  as  actual  man- 
agement went,  Mattie  fully  justified  her  mother's  eulogiums; 
in  her  household  arrangements  she  was  orderly  and  methodical 
— far  more  so  than  Grace  would  have  been  in  her  place;  the 
meals  were  always  punctual  and  well  served,  the  domestic 
machinery  worked  well  and  smoothly.    Archie  never  had  to 


118  NOT    LIKE    OTHEIL    GIRLS. 

complain  of  a  missing  button  or  a  frayed  wristband.  Never- 
theless, Matlie's  presence  at  the  vicerage  was  felt  by  her  brother 
as  a  sore  burden.  There  was  nothing  in  eotutnon  between 
them,  nothing  that  he  cared  to  discuss  with  her,  or  on  which 
he  wished  to  know  her  opinion:  he  was  naturally  a  frank,  out- 
spoken man,  one  that  demanded  sympathy  from  those  belong- 
ing to  him;  but  wiih  Mattie  lie  was  reticent,  alid,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, restrained  in  speech. 

One  reason  for  this  might  be  that  Mattie,  with  all  her  virt- 
ues— and  she  was  really  a  most  estimable  little  person — ^was 
sadly  deficient  in  tact.  She  never  knew  when  she  was  tread- 
ing on  other  people's  pet  prejudices.  She  could  not  be  made 
to  understand  that  her  presence  was  not  always  wanted,  and 
that  it  was  as  well  to  keep  silence  sometimes. 

She  would  intrude  her  advice  when  it  was  not  needed,  in  her 
good-natured  way;  she  had  always  interfered  with  everything 
and  everybody.  "  Meddlesome  Mattie  "  they  had  called  her 
at  home. 

She  was  so  wonderfully  elastic,  too,  in  her  temperament,  that 
nothing  long  depressed  her.  She  took  all  her  brother's  snub- 
biugs  in  excellent  part:  if  he  scolded  her  at  dinner-time,  and 
made  the  ready  tears  come  to  her  eyes — for  it  was  not  the  least 
of  Mattie's  sins  that  she  cried  easily  and  on  every  possible 
occasion — she  had  forgotten  it  by  tea-time,  and  would  chatter 
to  him  as  happily  as  ever. 

She  v/as  just  one  of  those  persevering  people  who  seem 
bound  to  be  snubbed:  one  can  not  help  it.  It  was  as  natural 
to  scold  Mattie  as  it  was  to  praise  other  people;  and  yet  it  was 
impossible  not  to  like  the  little  woman,  though  she  had  no  fine 
feelings,  as  Archie  said,  and  was  not  tliinskinned,  Grace  al- 
ways spoke  a  good  word  for  her;  she  was  very  kind  to  Mattie 
in  her  way— though  it  must  be  owned  that  she  showed  her 
small  respect  as  an  elder  sister.  None  of  her  brothers  and 
sisters  respected  Mattie  in  the  least;  they  laughed  at  her  and 
took  liberties  with  her,  presuming  largely  on  her  good  nature. 
"  It  is  only  Mattie;  nobody  cares  what  she  thinks,"  as  Clyde 
would  often  say.  "  Matt  the  Muddier,"  as  Frederick  named 
her. 

"  I  wonder  what  Mattie  would  say  if  any  one  ever  fell  in 
love  with  her?"  Grace  once  observed  in  fun  to  Arcbie.  "  Do 
you  know,  I  think  she  would  be  all  her  life  thanking  her  hus- 
band for  the  unexpected  honor  he  had  done  her,  and  trying 
to  prove  to  him  that  he  had  not  made  such  a  great  mistake, 
after  all." 

"  Mattie's  husband!    He  must  be  an  odd  sort  of  person,  I 


HOT    LIES    OTHER    GIRLS.  Il9 

should  think."  And  then  Archie  laughed,  in  not  the  politest 
manner.  Certainly  Mattie  was  not  appreciated  by  her  family. 
She  was  not  looking  her  best  this  morning  when  she  went  into 
her  brother's  study.  She  wore  the  offending  plaid  dress — a 
particularly  large  black-and-white  check  that  he  thought  espe- 
cially ugly.  Her  hat-trimmings  were  frayed,  and  the  straw 
itself  was  burned  brown  by  the  sun,  and  her  hair  was  ill  ar- 
ranged and  rough,  for  she  never  wasted  much  time  on  her  own 
person,  and,  to  crown  the  whole,  she  looked  flushed  and  heated. 

Archie,  who  was  sitting  at  his  writing-table  in  severely  cut 
ecclesiasticaJ  garments,  looking  as  trim  and  well-appointed  a 
young  clergyman  as  one  might  wish  to  see,  might  be  forgiven 
for  ihe  tone  of  ill-suppi-essed  irritation  with  which  he  said: 

"  Oh,  Mattie!  what  a  figure  you  look!  I  am  positively 
ashamed  that  any  one  should  see  you.  That  hat  is  only  fit  to 
frighten  the  birds." 

"  Oh,  it  will  do  very  well  for  the  mornings,"  returned  Mat- 
tie,  perfectly  undisturbed  at  these  compliments.  "  Nobody 
looks  at  me,  so  what  does  it  matter?"  But  this  remark, 
which  she  made  in  all  simplicity,  only  irritated  him  more. 

"  If  you  have  no  proper  pride,  you  might  at  least  consider 
my  feelings.  Do  you  think  a  man  in  my  position  likes  his 
sister  to  go  about  like  an  old  beggar-woman?  You  are 
enough  to  try  any  one's  patience,  Mattie;  you  are,  indeed!" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  me  and  my  things,"  returned  Mattie, 
coaxingly;  "and  don't  go  on  writing  just  yet,"  for  Archie 
had  taken  up  his  pen  again  with  a  great  show  of  being  busy. 
"  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  I  know  will  interest  you. 
There  are  some  new  people  come  to  the  Friary." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  what  Friary?  I  am  sure  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  place." 

"  Dear  me,  Archie,  how  cross  you  are  this  morning!"  ob- 
served Mattie,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  as  she  fidgeted  the  papers 
on  the  table.  "  Why,  the  Friary  is  that  shabby  little  cottage 
just  above  us— not  a  stone's-throw  from  this  house." 

"  Indeed!  Well,  1  can  not  say  I  am  much  interested  in  the 
movements  of  my  neighbors.  1  am  not  a  gossip  like  you, 
Mattie!" — another  fling  at  poor  Mattie.  "  1  wish  you  would 
leave  those  papers  alone.  You  know  I  never  allow  my  things 
to  be  tidied,  as  you  call  it,  and  I  am  really  very  busy  just 
now.  I  am  in  the  middle  of  accounts,  and  I  have  to  write  to 
Grace,  and — " 

"  Well,  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know."  And  Mattie 
looked  rather  crestfallen  and  disappointed.  "You  talked  so 
much  about  those  young  ladies  some  weeks  ago,  and  seemed 


1^6  irOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

'quite  sorry  not  to  see  them  again;  and  now — "  but  here 
Archie's  indifference  vanished,  and  he  looked  up  eage'-]y. 

"  What  young  ladies?  Not  those  in  Milner's  Library,  who 
asked  about  the  dress-maker?" 

*' The  very  same,"  returned  his  sister,  delighted  at  this 
change  of  manner.  *'  Oh,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you  that  I 
must  sit  down,"  planting  herself  comfortably  on  the  arm  of 
an  easy-chair  near  him.  Another  time  Archie  would  have  re- 
buked her  for  her  unlady-like  attitude,  and  told  her,  proba- 
bly, that  Grace  never  did  such  things;  but  now  his  interest 
was  so  excited  that  he  let  it  pass  for  once.  He  even  suffered 
her  to  take  off  her  old  hat  and  deposit  it  unreproved  on  the 
top  of  his  cherished  papers.  "  I  was  over  at  Crump's  this 
morning,  to  speak  to  Bobbie  about  weeding  the  garden,  when 
1  was  surprised  to  see  a  railway  van  unloading  furniture  at  the 
Friary.*' 

"  What  an  absurd  name!"  sotto  voce  from  Archie;  but  he 
offered  no  further  check  to  Mattie's  gossip. 

"  I  asked  Mrs.  Crump,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  name  of 
the  new  people;  and  she  said  it  was  Challoner.  There  were  a 
mother  and  three  daughters,  she  believed.  She  had  seen  two 
of  them  —  pretty,  nice-spoken  young  creatures,  and  quite 
]adies.  They  had  been  down  before  to  see  the  cottage  and  to 
have  it  done  up.  It  looks  quite  a  different  place  already — 
nicely  painted,  and  the  shrubs  trimmed.  The  door  was  open, 
and  as  I  stood  at  Mrs.  Crump's  window,  peeping  between  her 
geraniums,  I  saw  such  a  respectable,  gray-haired  woman,  like 
an  upper  serv^ant,  carrying  something  into  the  house;  and  a 
moment  after  one  of  those  young  ladies  we  saw  in  the  Library 
— not  the  pretty  one,  but  the  otlier — came  to  the  door  and 
spoke  to  the  men." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  did  not  make  a  mistake,  Mattie?"  asked 
her  brother,  incredulously.  "  You  are  very  short-sighted; 
perhaps  you  did  not  see  correctly.  How  can  those  stylish- 
looking  girls  live  in  such  a  shabby  place?  I  can  hardly  believe 
it  possible. " 

*'  Oh,  it  was  the  same,  I  am  positive  about  that.  She  was 
in  the  same  cambric  dress  you  admired.  1  could  see  distinct- 
ly. I  watched  her  for  a  long  time,  and  then  the  pretty  one 
came  out  and  Joined  her.  She  is  pretty,  Archie;  she  has  such 
a  lovely  complexion." 

"  But  are  they  poor? — they  don't  look  so.  What  on  earth 
can  it  mean?"  he  asked,  in  a  perplexed  voice;  but  Mattie  only 
shook  her  head  and  went  on: 

We  must  find  out  all  about  them  by  and  by.     They  are 


<< 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  12l 

worth  knowing,  I  am  sure  of  that.  Poor? — well,  they  can 
not  be  rich,  certainly,  to  live  in  the  Friary;  but  they  are  geU' 
tlepeople;  one  cuu  see  that  in  a  moment." 

"  Of  course!  who  doubted  it?"  was  the  somewhat  impatient 
answer. 

"  Well,  but  that  is  not  all,"  went  on  Mattie,  too  delighted 
with  her  brother's  interest  to  try  to  curtail  her  story.  "  Of 
course  I  could  not  stand  lung  watching  them,  so  I  did  my 
errand  and  camo  away;  and  theu  1  met  Miss  Middleton,  and 
we  walked  down  to  the  Library  together  to  change  those 
books.  Miss  Milner  was  talking  to  some  ladies  when  we  first 
went  in,  and,  as  Miss  Masham  was  not  in  the  shop,  we  had  to 
wait  our  turn,  so  I  had  a  good  look  at  them.  The  elder  one 
was  such  a  pretty,  aristocratic-looking  woman — a  little  too 
languid,  perhaps,  for  my  taste;  and  the  younger  one  was  a 
little  like  Isabel,  only  nicer  looking.  I  shouldn't  have  stared 
at  them  so  much— at  least,  I  am  afraid  1  stared,"  went  on 
Mattie,  forgetting  for  the  moment  how  often  she  had  been 
taken  to  task  for  this  very  thing — "  but  something  Miss  Mil- 
ner said  attracted  my  attention.  '  1  am  not  to  send  it  to  the 
Friary,  then,  ma'am?'  '  Well,  no,'  the  lady  returned,  rather 
hesitatingly.  She  had  such  a  nice  voice  and  manner,  Archie. 
'  My  youngest  daughter  and  I  are  at  Bsach  House  at  present. 
1  am  rather  an  invalid,  and  the  bustle  would  be  too  much  for 
me.  Dulce,  we  had  better  have  these  things  sent  to  Beach 
House.'  And  then  the  young  lady  standing  by  her  said,  '  Oh, 
yes,  mother;  we  shall  want  them  this  evening.'  And  theu 
they  went  out." 

"  There  is  a  third  sister,  then?"  observed  Archie,  not  pre- 
tending to  disguise  his  interest  in  Mattie's  recital. 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  third  one;  she  's  certainly  a  little  like  Isa- 
bel; she  has  a  dimple  like  hers,  and  is  of  the  same  height.  I 
asked  Miss  Milner,  when  they  were  out  of  hearing,  if  their 
name  was  Challoner,  and  if  they  were  the  new  people  who 
were  coming  to  live  at  the  empty  cottage  on  the  Braid  wood 
Eoad.  I  thought  she  did  not  seem  much  disposed  to  give  me 
information.  Yes,  their  name  was  Challoner,  and  thty  had. 
taken  the  Friary;  but  they  were  quite  strangers  in  the  town,, 
and  no  one  knew  anything  about  them.  And  then  Miss  Mid- 
dleton chimed  in;  she  said  her  father  had  noticed  the  young; 
ladies  some  weeks  ago,  and  had  called  her  attention  to  them. 
They  were  very  pretty  girls,  and  had  quite  taken  his  fancy;  ho 
had  not  forgotten  them,  and  had  spoken  of  them  that  very 
morning.  She  supposed  Mrs.  Challoner  must  be  a  widow,  ancj 
not  verj  well  ofE;  did  Mics  Milner  know?    Would  ^ou  believe 


123  NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GIRLS. 

it,  Archie?  Miss  Milner  got  quite  red  and  looked  confused. 
You  know  how  she  enjoys  a  bit  of  gossip  generally;  but  the 
questions  seemed  to  trouble  her.  '  They  were  not  at  all  well 
off,  she  knew  that,  but  nicer  young  ladies  she  had  never  seen, 
or  wished  to  see;  and  she  hoped  every  one  wouIg  be  kind  to 
them,  and  not  forget  they  were  real  born  ladies,  in  spite  of — ' 
And  here  the  old  thing  got  more  confused  than  ever,  and  came 
to  a  full  stop,  and  begged  to  know  how  she  could  serve  us.^' 

"  It  is  very  strange — very  strange  indeed,'''  returned  her 
brother,  in  a  meditative  voice;  but,  as  Mattie  had  nothing 
more  to  tell  him,  he  did  not  discuss  the  matter  any  further, 
only  thanked  her  for  her  news,  and  civilly  dismissed  her  on 
the  plea  that  his  business  was  at  a  standstill. 

But  he  did  not  resume  his  accounts  for  some  time  after  he 
was  left  alone.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  in  a  singularly  absent  manner.  Mattie's  news 
was  somewhat  exciting.  The  idea  of  having  such  pleasant 
neighbors  located  within  a  stone's-throw  of  the  vicarage  was 
in  itself  disturbing  to  the  imagination  of  a  young  man  of 
eight-and4wenty,  even  though  a  clergyman.  And  then,  it 
must  be  confessed,  Nan's  charming  face  and  figure  had  never 
been  forgotten;  he  had  looked  out  for  the  sisters  many  times 
since  his  chance  encounter  with  Phillis,  and  had  been  secretly 
disappointed  at  their  total  disappearance.  And  now  they 
proved  not  mere  visitors,  but  positively  inhabitants  of  Had- 
leigh.  H^  would  meet  them  everyday;  and,  as  there  was  but 
one  church  in  the  place,  they  would  of  course  be  numbered 
among  his  flock.  As  their  future  clergyman  he  would  have  a 
right  of  entrance  to  the  cottage. 

"  How  soon  do  you  think  we  ought  to  call  upon  them,  Mat- 
tie?"  he  asked,  when  he  was  seated  opposite  to  his  sister  at 
the  luncheon-table.  The  accounts  had  not  progressed  very 
favorably,  and  the  letter  to  Grace  was  not  yet  commenced. 
Mattie's  news  had  been  a  sad  interruption  to  his  morning's 
work. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean,  Archie?"  she  returned,  a  little  be- 
wildered at  this  abrupt  remark;  and  then,  as  he  frowned  at 
her  denseness,  she  bethought  herself  of  the  new  people.  It 
was  not  often  Archie  asked  her  advice  about  anything,  but  on 
this  occasion  the  young  vicar  felt  himself  incompetent  to  de- 
cide. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  the  new  folk  at  the  Friary,"  she  con- 
tinued, carelessly.  "  Oh,  they  are  only  moving  in  to-day,  and 
they  will  be  in  a  muddle  for  a  week,  1  should  think.  I  don'l 
tJiiuk  we  can  intrude  for  ten  days  or  so," 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  1^3 


(< 


Not  ]f  you  think  it  will  be  intrusive,"  he  returned,  rather 
aiixiously;  "  but  they  are  strangers  in  the  place,  and  all  ladies 
—there  does  not  seem  to  be  a  man  belouging  to  them — would 
it  not  be  neighborly,  as  we  live  so  close,  just  to  call,  not  in  a 
formal  way,  you  know,  but  just  to  volunteer  help?  There  are 
little  things  you  could  do  for  them,  Mattie;  and,  as  a  clergy- 
man, they  could  not  regard  my  visit  as  an  intrusion,  I  should 
think.  Do  you  not  agree  with  me?"  looking  at  his  sister 
rather  gravely. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mattie,  bluntly;  "  I  should 
not  care  for  strangers  prying  into  my  concerns,  if  I  were  in 
their  place.  And  yet,  as  you  say,  we  are  such  close  neighbors, 
and  one  would  like  to  be  kind  to  the  poor  things,  for  they 
must  be  lonely,  settling  in  a  strange,  new  place.  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Ai'chie,"  as  his  face  fell  at  this  matter-of-fact  speech; 
"  it  is  Thursday,  and  they  will  be  sure  to  be  at  church  on 
Sunday;  we  shall  see  them  there,  and  that  will  be  an  excuse 
for  us  to  call  on  Monday.  We  can  say  then  that  we  are  neigh- 
bors, and  that  we  would  not  wait  until  they  were  all  in  order. 
We  can  offer  to  send  them  things  from  the  vicarage,  or  vol- 
unteer help  in  many  little  ways.    I  think  that  would  be  best." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  you  are  right,  and  we  will  wait  until  Mon- 
day," returned  Archie,  taking  down  his  soft  felt  hat.  "  Kow  I 
must  go  on  my  rounds,  and  not  waste  any  more  time  chatter- 
ing." But,  though  he  spoke  with  unusual  good  nature,  he 
did  not  invite  Mattie  to  be  his  companion,  and  the  poor  little 
woman  botook  herself  to  the  solitary  drawing-room  and  some 
plain  sewing  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

The  young  clergyman  stood  for  a  moment  irresolutely  at 
the  green  door,  and  cast  a  longing  glance  in  the  direction  of 
the  Friary,  where  the  van  was  still  uidoading,  and  then  he  be- 
thought himself  that,  though  Mattie  had  given  orders  about 
the  weeding  of  the  garden  paths,  ic  would  be  as  well  to  speak 
to  Crump  about  the  wire  fence  that  was  wanted  for  the 
poultry-yard;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  on  this 
p  int  lie  walked  on  briskly. 

The  last  piece  of  furniture  had  just  been  carried  in;  but,  as 
Mr.  Drummond  was  picking  his  way  through  the  straw  and 
debris  that  littered  the  side  path,  two  girlish  figures  came  out 
of  the  door-wav  full  upon  him. 

He  raised  his  hat  involuntarily,  but  they  drew  back  at  once; 
and,  as  he  went  on,  confused  at  this  sudden  rencounter,  the 
sound  of  ii  light  laugh  greeted  his  ear. 

"  How  annoying  that  we  should  always  be  meeting  himi" 


l24  irOT    LIKE    OTHEK    Giiits. 

observed  Nan,  innocently.  "  Don't  laugh,  Phillis;  he  will 
hear  you.  *' 

"  My  dear,  it  must  be  fate,''  returned  Phillis,  solemnly. 
"  I  shall  think  it  my  duty  to  warn  Dick  if  this  goes  on."  But, 
in  spite  of  her  mischievous  speech,  she  darted  a  quick,  inter- 
ested look  after  the  handsome  young  clergyman  as  he  walked 
on.  Both  the  girls  stood  in  the  porch  for  some  minutes  after 
they  had  made  their  retreat.  They  had  come  out  to  cool 
themselves  and  to  get  a  breath  of  air,  until  a  July  sun  and 
Mr.  Drummoud's  sudden  appearance  defeated  their  intention. 
They  had  no  idea  that  they  were  watched  from  behind  the 
screening  geraniums  in  Mrs.  Crump's  window.  Both  of  them 
were  enveloped  in  Dorothy's  bib-aprons,  which  hid  their  pretty 
rounded  figures.  Phillis's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  arms 
were  bare  to  the  dimpled  elbows,  and  Nan's  brown  hair  was 
slightly  disheveled. 

"  We  look  just  like  cooks!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  regarding 
her  coarse  apron  with  disfavor;  but  Nan  stretched  her  arms 
with  a  little  indifference  and  weariness. 

"  What  does  it  matter  how  we  look — like  cooks  or  house- 
maids? 1  am  dreadfully  tired;  but  we  must  go  in  and  work, 
Phil.  1  wonder  what  has  become  of  Dulce?"  And  then  the 
charming  vision  disappeared  from  the  young  clergyman's 
eyes,  and  he  was  free  to  fix  his  mind  on  the  wire  fence  that 
was  required  for  the  poultry -yard. 

As  soon  as  he  had  accomplished  his  errand  he  set  his  face 
toward  the  vicarage,  for  he  made  up  his  mind  suddenly  that 
he  would  call  on  the  Middletons,  and  perhaps  on  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
The  latter  was  a  duty  that  he  owed  to  his  pastoral  conscience; 
but  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  go  to  the  Middletons*. 
Nevertheless,  the  father  and  daughter  were  his  most  intimate 
friends,  and  on  all  occasions  he  was  sure  of  Miss  Middleton's 
sympathy.  They  lived  at  Brooklyn — a  low  white  house  a  lit- 
tle belosv  the  vicarage.  It  was  a  charming  house,  he  always 
thought,  so  well  arranged  and  well  managed;  and  the  garden 
— that  was  the  colonel's  special  hobby — was  as  pretty  as  a  gar- 
den could  be.  The  drawing-room  looked  shady  and  comforta- 
ble, for  the  French  windows  opened  into  a  cool  veranda,  fitted 
up  with  flower-baskets  and  wicker  chairs;  and  beyond  lay  the 
trim  lawn,  with  beds  of  blazing  verbenas  and  calceolarias. 
Miss  Middleton's  work-table  was  just  within  one  of  the  win- 
dows; but  the  colonel,  in  his  gray  summer  suit,  reclined  in  a 
louiiging-chair  in  the  veranda.  He  was  reading  the  paper  to 
his  daughter,  and  was  just  in  the  middle  of  last  night's  debate; 


'SOf    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  125 

toevertheiess,  he  threw  it  aside,  well  pleased  at  the  interrup- 
tion. 

"I  knew  how  1  should  find  you  occupied,"  observed  Mr. 
Drummond,  as  he  exchanged  a  smile  with  Miss  Middleton. 
He  was  fully  aware  that  politics  were  not  to  her  taste,  and 
yet  every  afternoon  she  listened  to  such  reading,  well  content 
even  with  the  sound  of  her  father's  voice. 

Elizabeth  Middleton  was  certainly  a  charming  person. 
Phillis  had  called  her  the  "  gray-haired  girl,"  and  the  title 
suited  her.  She  was  not  a  girl  by  any  means,  having  reached 
her  six-and-thirtieth  year;  but  her  hair  was  as  silvery  as  an 
old  woman's,  gray  and  plentiful,  and  soft  as  silk,  and  con- 
trasted strangely  with  her  still  youthful  face. 

Without  being  handsome,  Elizabeth  Middleton  was  beauti- 
ful. Iler  expression  was  sweet  and  restful,  and  attracted  all 
hearts.  People  who  were  acquainted  with  her  said  she  was 
the  happiest  creature  they  knew — that  she  simply  diffused 
sunshine  by  her  mere  presence;  such  a  contrast,  they  would 
adJ,  to  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  bore  all  her  troubles 
badly,  and  was  of  a  proud,  fretful  disposition.  But  then  Mrs. 
Cheyne  had  lost  her  husband  and  her  two  children,  and  led 
such  a  sad,  lonely  life;  and  no  such  troubles  had  fallen  to  Miss 
Middleton. 

Elizabeth  Middleton  could  afford  to  be  happy,  they  said,  for 
she  was  the  delight  of  her  father's  eyes.  Her  young  half- 
brother,  Hammond,  who  was  with  his  regiment  in  India,  was 
not  nearly  so  dear  to  the  old  man;  and  of  course  that  was  why 
she  had  never  married,  that  her  father's  house  might  not  be 
left  desolate. 

This  is  how  people  talked;  but  not  a  single  person  in  Had- 
leigh  knew  that  Elizabeth  Middleton  had  had  a  great  sorrow 
in  her  life. 

She  had  been  engaged  for  some  years  most  happily,  and 
with  her  father's  consent,  to  one  of  his  brother  ofiBcers.  Cap- 
tain Sedgwick  was  of  good  family,  but  poor;  and  they  were 
waiting  for  his  promotion,  for  at  that  time  Colonel  Middleton 
would  have  been  unable  to  give  his  daughter  any  dowry. 
Klizabeth  was  young  and  happy,  and  she  could  afford  to  wait. 
"No  girl  ever  gloried  in  her  lover  more  than  she  did  in  hers. 
Capel  Sedgwick  was  not  only  brave  and  singularly  handsome, 
but  he  bore  a  reputation  through  the  whole  regiment  for  hav- 
ing a  higher  standard  of  duty  than  most  men. 

Promotion  came  at  last,  and,  just  as  Elizabeth  was  gayly 
making  preparations  for  her  marriage,  fatal  tidings  were 
brought  to  her.     Major  Sedgwick  had  gone  to  visit  an  old 


1^^  ifCf    LIKE    OTHER    QIELg. 

servant  in  the  hospital  who  had  been  struck  down  with  cholera; 
he  had  remained  with  him  some  time,  and  on  his  return  to 
his  bungalow  the  same  fell  disease  had  attacked  him,  and  be- 
fore many  hours  were  over  he  was  dead.  The  shock  was  a 
terrible  one;  in  the  first  moments  of  her  bitter  loss,  Elizabeth 
cried  out  that  her  misery  was  too  great — that  all  happiness 
was  over  for  her  in  this  world,  and  that  she  only  prayed  that 
she  might  be  buried  in  the  same  grave  with  Capel. 

The  light  had  not  yet  come  to  the  poor  soul  that  felt  itself 
afflicted  past  endurance  and  could  find  no  reason  for  such 
pain.  It  could  not  be  said  that  Elizabeth  bore  her  trouble 
better  than  other  girls  would  have  borne  theirs  under  like  cir- 
cumstances. She  fretted  and  grew  thin,  and  dashed  herself 
wildly  against  the  inevitable,  only  reproaching  herself  for  her 
selfishness  and  want  of  submission  when  she  looktd  at  her 
father's  care-worn  face. 

But  then  came  a  time  when  light  and  peace  revisited  the 
wrecked  heart — when  confused  reasonings  no  longer  beset  the 
poor  weak  brain  and  filled  it  with  dismay  and  doubt — when 
the  Divine  will  became  her  will,  and  there  was  no  longer  sub- 
mission, but  a  most  joyful  surrender.  And  no  one,  and  least 
of  all  she  herself,  knew  when  the  darkness  was  vanquished  by 
that  clear  uprising  of  pure  radiance,  or  how  those  brooding 
wings  of  peace  settled  on  her  soul.  From  that  time,  every 
human  being  that  came  within  her  radius  was  welcome  as  a 
new  object  of  love.  To  give,  and  yet  to  give,  and  never  to  be 
satisfied,  was  a  daily  necessity  of  life  to  Elizabeih.  "Now 
there  is  some  one  more  to  love,"  she  would  say  to  herself, 
when  a  new  acquaintance  was  brought  to  her;  and,  as  the  old 
adage  is  true  that  tells  us  love  begets  love,  there  was  no  more 
popular  person  in  Hadleigh  than  Elizabeth  Middleton.  She 
had  something  to  say  in  praise  of  every  one;  not  that  she  was 
blind  to  the  faults  of  her  neighbors,  but  she  preferred  to  be 
silent  and  ignore  them. 

And  she  was  especially  kind  to  Mattie.  In  the  early  days 
of  their  intimacy,  the  young  vicar  would  often  speak  to  her  of 
his  sister  Grace  and  lament  their  enforced  separation  from 
each  other.  Miss  Middleton  listened  sympathetically,  with 
the  same  sweet  attention  that  she  gave  to  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  that  laid  claim  to  it;  but  once,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished, she  said,  rather  gravely: 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Drummond,  that  I  think  your  mother 
was  right?" 

"  Right  in  dooming  Grace  to  such  a  life?"  he  said,  pausing 
in  utter  surprise  at  her  remark. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  IgJ 

**  Pardon  me;  it  is  not  her  mother  who  dooms  her,'*  re- 
turned Miss  MidJieton,  quickly,  "but  duty — her  own  sense 
of  right— everything  that  is  sacred.  If  Mrs.  Drummond  had 
not  decided  that  she  could  not  be  spared,  1  am  convinced, 
from  all  you  tell  me,  that  Grace  would  still  have  remained  at 
home;  her  conscience  would  have  been  too  strong  for  her.'' 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  admitted,  reluctantly. 
*'  Grace  is  a  noble  creature,  and  capable  of  any  amount  of 
self-sacrifice." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Middleton,  with  sparkling 
eyes.  "  How  I  should  like  to  know  her!  it  would  be  a  real 
pleasure  and  privilege;  but  I  am  very  fond  of  your  sister  Mat- 
tie,  too." 

"  Fond  of  Mattie!"  It  was  hardly  brotherly,  but  he  could 
Dot  help  that  incredulous  tone  in  his  voice.  How  could  such 
a  superior  woman  as  Miss  Middleton  be  even  tolerant  of  Mat- 
tie? 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  quite  calmly;  "  I  have  a  great  re- 
spect for  your  sister.  She  is  so  unselfish  and  amiable,  and 
there  is  something  so  genuine  in  her.  Before  everything  one 
wants  truth,"  finished  Elizabeth,  taking  up  her  work. 

Now,  as  the  young  clergyman  entered  the  room,  sho 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  him  with  her  usual  beaming  smile. 

"  This  is  good  of  you,  to  come  so  soon  again,"  she  said, 
making  room  for  him  between  her  father  and  herself.  "  But 
whv  have  you  not  brought  Mattie?"  and  Archie  felt  as  though 
he  had  received  a  rebuke. 

"  She  is  finishing  some  work,"  he  returned,  a  little  con- 
fused; "  that  is,  what  you  ladies  call  work.  It  is  not  always 
necessary  for  the  clergy  woman  to  pay  visits,  is  it?" 

"  The  clergywoman,  as  you  call  her,  is  doing  too  much.  I 
was  scolding  her  this  morning  for  not  sparing  iierself  more;  1 
thought  she  was  not  looking  quite  well,  Mr.  Drummond." 

"  Oh,  Mattie  is  well  enough,"  he  replied,  carelessly.  He 
had  not  come  to  talk  about  his  sister;  a  far  more  interesting 
subject  was  in  his  mind.  "  Do  you  know,  colonel,"  he  went 
on,  with  some  animation,  "  that  you  and  I  have  new  neigh- 
bors? Do  you  remember  the  young  ladies  in  the  blue  cambric 
dresses?"  And  at  this  question  the  colonel  threw  aside  his 
paper  at  once. 

"  Ebzabeih  has  been  telling  me.  1  remember  the  young 
ladies  perfectly.  I  could  not  help  noticing  them.  They 
walked  so  well — heads  up,  and  as  neat  and  trim  as  though 
they  were  on  parade;  pretty  creature?^  both  of  thenj,     Eiiz^- 


128  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

beth  pretends  not  to  be  interested,  but  she  is  quite  excited. 
Look  at  her!" 

"  Nay,  father,  it  is  you  who  can  talk  of  nothing  else;  but  it 
will  be  very  nice  to  have  such  pleasant  neighbors.  How  soon 
do  you  think  we  may  call  on  them?" 

And  then  Archie  explained,  with  some  little  embarrassment, 
that  he  and  Mattie  thought  of  calling  the  following  Monday 
and  oEEering  their  services. 

*'  That  is  very  thoughtful  of  Mattie.  She  is  such  a  kind- 
hearted  little  creature,  and  is  always  ready  to  serve  every- 
body." 

And  then  they  entered  into  a  discussion  on  the  new-comers 
that  lasted  so  long  that  the  tea-things  made  their  appearance; 
and  shortly  afterward  Mr.  Drummond  announced  that  he 
must  go  and  call  on  Mrs.  Cheyne. 

CHAPITER  XVI. 

A  VISIT  TO  THE   WHITE  HOUSE. 

Hitherto  Mr.  Drummond  had  acknowledged  this  after- 
noon to  be  a  success.  He  had  obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  new- 
comers through  Mrs,  Crump's  screen  of  geraniums,  and  had 
listened  with  much  interest  to  Colonel  Middleton's  innocent 
gossip,  while  Miss  Middleton  had  poured  out  their  tea.  In- 
deed, his  attention  had  quite  flattered  his  host. 

"Really,  Drummond  is  a  very  intelligent  fellow,"  he  ob- 
served to  his  daughter,  when  they  were  at  last  left  alone — "  a 
very  intelligent  fellow,  and  so  thoroughly  gentlemanly.'* 

"  Yes,  he  is  very  nice,"  returned  Elizabeth;  "  and  he  seems 
wonderfully  interested  in  our  new  neighbors."  And  here  she 
smiled  a  little  archly. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Drummond  had  fully  enjoyed 
his  visit.  Nevertheless,  as  he  left  Brooklyn,  and  set  his  face 
toward  the  White  House,  his  manner  changed,  and  his  face 
became  somewhat  grave. 

He  had  told  himself  that  he  owed  it  to  his  pastoral  con- 
science to  call  on  Mrs.  Cheyne;  but,  notwithstanding  this 
monition,  he  disliked  the  duty,  for  he  always  felt  on  these 
occasions  that  he  was  hardly  up  to  his  office,  and  that  this 
solitary  member  of  his  flock  was  not  disposed  to  yield  herself 
to  his  guidance.  He  was  ready  to  pity  her  if  she  >vould  allow 
herself  to  be  pitied;  but  any  expression  of  sympathy  seemed 
repugnant  to  her.  Any  one  so  utterly  lonely,  so  absolutely 
without  interest  in  existence,  he  had  never  seen  or  thought  to 
geej  and  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  like  her,  or  to  mj 


HOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  139 

more  than  the  mere  commonplace  utterances  of  soc.ety. 
Though  he  was  her  clergyman,  and  bound  by  the  sacredness 
of  his  office  to  be  specially  tender  to  the  bruised  and  maimed 
ones  of  his  flock,  he  could  not  get  her  to  acknowledge  her 
maimed  condition  to  him,  or  to  do  anything  but  listen  to  him 
\yith  cold  attention  when  he  hinted  vaguely  that  all  human 
beings  are  in  need  of  sympathy.  Perhaps  she  thought  him 
too  young,  and  feared  to  fiud  his  judgments  immature  and 
one-sided;  but  certainly  his  visits  to  the  White  House  were 
failures.  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  still  young  enough  and  handsome 
enough  to  need  some  sort  of  chaperonage;  and  though  she 
professed  to  mock  at  conventionality,  she  acknowledged  its 
claims  in  this  respect,  by  securing  the  permanent  services  of 
Miss  Mewlstone — a  lady  of  uncertain  age  and  uncertain  ac- 
quirements. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  every  one  wondered  at  Mrs. 
Cheyne  and  her  choice,  forno  one  could  be  less  companionable 
than  Miss  Mewlstone. 

She  was  a  stout,  sleepy-looking  woman,  with  a  soft  voice, 
ft-id  in  placidity  and  a  certain  coziness  of  exterior  somewhat 
resembled  a  large  white  cat.  Some  people  declared  she  abso- 
lutely purred;  and  certainly  her  small  blue  eyes  were  ready  to 
clo33  on  all  occasions.  She  always  dressed  in  gray — a  very 
unbecoming  color  to  a  stout  person — and  when  not  asleep  or 
reading  (for  she  was  a  great  reader)  she  seemed  always  busy 
v/ith  a  mass  of  soft,  fleecy  wool.  No  one  ever  heard  her  vol- 
untarily conversing  with  her  patroness.  They  would  drive  to- 
gether for  hours  or  pass  whole  evenings  in  the  same  room, 
scarcely  exchanging  a  word.  "Just  so,  my  dear,''  she  would 
say,  in  return  to  any  observation  made  to  her  by  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
"  Just-so  Mewlstone,*'  a  young  wag  once  named  her. 

People  stared  incredulously  when  Mrs.  Cheyne  assured  them 
her  companion  v/as  a  very  superior  woman.  They  thought  it 
was  only  her  satire,  and  did  not  believe  her  in  the  least.  They 
would  have  stared  still  more  if  they  had  really  known  the  ex- 
tent of  Miss  Mewlstone's  acquirements. 

'-'  She  seems  so  stupid,  as  though  she  can  not  talk,"  one  of 
Mrs,  Cheyne's  friends  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  can  talk,  and  very  well,  too,"  returned  that 
lady,_  quietly;  "  but  she  knows  that  1  do  not  care  about  it; 
her  silence  is  her  great  virtue  in  my  eyes.  And  then  she  has 
tact,  and  knows  when  to  keep  out  of  the  way,"  finished  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  with  the  utmost  frankness;  and,  indeed,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  other  person  would  have  retained  her 
position  so  long  at  tlie  White  House. 
5 


130  KOT  LtKE  ornv.u  girls. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  was  no  favorite  with  the  young  pastor,  never^' 
theless,  she  was  an  exceedingly  handsome  woman.  Before 
the  bloom  of  her  youth  had  worn  oil'  she  had  been  considered 
absolutely  beautiful.  As  regarded  the  form  of  her  features, 
there  was  no  fault  to  be  found,  but  her  expression  was  hardly 
pleasing.  There  was  a  hardness  that  people  found  a  little 
repelling — a  bitter,  dissatisfied  droop  of  the  lip,  a  weariness  of 
gloom  in  the  dark  eyes,  and  a  tendency  to  satire  in  her  speech, 
that  alienated  people's  sympathy. 

"  I  am  unhappy,  but  pity  me  if  you  dare!*'  seemed  to  be 
written  legibly  upon  her  countenance;  and  those  who  knew 
her  best  held  their  peace  in  her  presence,  and  then  went  away 
and  spoke  softly  to  each  other  of  the  life  that  seemed  wasted 
and  the  heart  that  was  so  hardened  with  its  trouble.  "  What 
would  the  world  be  if  every  one  were  to  bear  their  sorrows  so 
badly?"  they  would  say.  "  There  is  something  heathenish 
in  such  utter  want  of  resignation.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  very  sad, 
her  losing  her  husband  and  children,  but  it  all  happened  four 
or  five  years  ago;  and  you  know — "  and  here  people's  voices 
dropped  a  little  ominously,  for  there  were  vague  hints  afloat 
that  things  had  not  always  gone  on  smoothly  at  the  White 
House,  even  when  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  her  husband.  Che  had 
been  an  only  child,  and  had  married  the  only  survivor  of  a  large 
family.  Both  were  handsome,  self-willed  young  peojjle; 
neither  had  been  used  to  contradiction.  In  spite  of  their  love 
for  each  other,  there  had  been  a  strife  of  wills  and  misunder- 
standings from  the  earliest  days  of  their  marriage.  Neither 
knew  what  giving  up  meant,  and  before  many  months  were 
over  the  White  House  witnessed  many  painful  scenes.  Her- 
bert Cheyne  was  passionate,  and  at  times  almost  violent;  but 
there  was  no  malice  in  his  nature.  He  stormed  furiously  and 
forgave  easily.  A  little  forbearance  would  have  turned  him 
into  a  sweet-natured  man;  but  his  wife's  haughtiness  and  re- 
sentment lasted  long;  she  never  acknowledged  herself  in  the 
wrong,  never  made  overtures  of  peace,  but  bore  herself  on 
every  occasion  as  a  sorely  injured  wife,  a  state  of  things  singu- 
larly provoking  to  a  man  of  Herbert  Cheyne's  irritable  tem- 
perament. 

There  was  injudicious  partisanship  as  regarded  their 
children:  while  Mrs.  Cheyne  idolized  her  boy,  her  husband 
lavished  most  of  his  attentions  on  the  baby  girl — "  papa's 
girl,"  as  she  always  called  herself  in  opposition  to  "  mother's 
boy." 

Mrs.  Cheyne  really  believed  she  loved  her  boy  best,  but 
when  diphtheria  carried  off  her  little  Janie  also,  she  was  utterly 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  131 

inconsolable.  Her  husband  was  far  away  when  it  happened; 
he  had  been  a  great  traveler  before  his  marriage,  and  latterly 
his  matrimonial  relations  with  his  wife  had  been  so  unsatisfac- 
tory tliat  virtual  separation  had  ensued.  Two  or  three  months 
before  illness,  and  then  death,  had  devastated  the  nursery  at 
the  White  House,  he  had  set  out  for  a  long  exploring  expedition 
in  Central  Africa. 

"  You  make  my  life  so  unbearable  that,  but  for  the  chil- 
dren, I  would  never  care  to  set  foot  in  my  home  again, '^  he 
had  said  to  her,  in  one  of  his  violent  moods;  and,  though  he 
repented  of  this  speech  afterward,  she  could  not  be  brought  to 
believe  that  he  had  not  meant  it,  and  her  heart  had  been  hard 
against  him  even  in  their  parting. 

But  before  many  monUis  were  over  she  would  have  given  all 
she  possessed— to  her  very  life— to  have  recalled  him  to  her 
side.  She  was  childless,  and  her  health  was  broken;  but  no 
such  recall  was  possible.  Vague  rumors  reached  her  of  some 
miserable  disaster;  people  talked  of  a  missing  Englishman. 
One  of  the  little  party  had  already  succumbed  to  fever  and 
hardship;  by  and  by  another  followed;  and  the  last  news  that 
reached  them  was  that  Herbert  Cheyne  lay  at  the  point  of 
death  in  the  kraal  of  a  friendly  tribe.  Since  then  the  silence 
had  been  of  the  grave:  not  one  of  the  party  had  survived  to 
bring  the  news  of  his  last  moments:  there  had  been  illness  and 
disaster  from  the  first. 

\A^hen  Mrs.  Cheyne  recovered  from  the  nervous  disorder 
that  had  attacked  her  on  the  receipt  of  this  news,  she  put  on 
widow's  mourning,  and  wore  it  for  two  years;  then  she  sent 
for  Miss  Mewlstone,  and  set  herself  to  go  through  with  the 
burden  of  her  life.  If  she  found  it  heavy,  she  never  com- 
plained :  she  was  silent  on  her  own  as  on  other  people's  troubles. 
Only  at  the  sight  of  a  child  of  two  or  three  years  of  age  she 
would  turn  pale,  and  draw  down  her  veil;  and  if  it  ran  up  to 
her,  as  would  sometimes  happen,  she  would  put  it  away  from 
her  angrily,  pushing  it  away  almost  with  violence,  and  no 
child  was  ever  suffered  to  cross  her  threshold. 

The  drawing-room  at  the  White  House  was  a  spacious  apart- 
ment, with  four  long  windows  opening  on  the  lawn.  Mrs. 
Cheyne  was  sitting  in  her  low  chair,  reading,  with  Miss  Mewl- 
stone at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  with  her  knitting-basket 
beside  her:  two  or  three  greyhounds  were  grouped  near  her. 
They  all  rushed  forward  with  furious  barks  as  Mr.  Drummond 
was  announced,  and  then  leaped  joyously  round  him.  Mrs. 
Cheyne  put  down  her  book,  and  greeted  him  with  a  frosty 
gmile, 


133  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

She  had  laid  aside  her  widosv's  weeds,  but  still  dressed  in 
black,  the  eomberness  of  her  apparel  harmouizing  perfectly 
with  her  pale,  creamy  complexion.  Her  dress  was  always 
rich  in  material,  and  most  carefully  adjusted.  In  her  younger 
days  it  had  been  an  art  with  her — almost  a  passion — and  it 
had  grown  into  a  matter  of  custom. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  come  again  so  soon,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand.  The  words  were 
civil,  but  a  slight  inflection  on  the  word  "  soon  "  made  Mr. 
Drummond  feel  a  little  uncomfortable.  Did  she  think  he 
called  too  often?  He  wished  he  had.  brought  Mattie;  only 
last  time  she  had  been  so  satirical,  and  had  quizzed  the  poor 
little  thing  unmercifully;  not  that  Mattie  had.  found  out  that 
she  was  being  quizzed. 

"  I  hardly  thought  I  should  find  you  at  home,  it  is  so  fine 
an  afternoon;  but  I  made  the  attempt,  you  see,''  he  contiu- 
ued,  a  little  awkwardly. 

"  Your  parochial  conscience  was  uneasy,  I  suppose,  because 
I  was  missing  at  church?"  she  returned,  somewhat  slyly. 
"  You  would  make  a  capital  overseer,  Mr.  Drummond  " — 
with  a  short  laugh.  "  A  headache  is  a  good  excuse,  is  it  not? 
1  had  a  headache,  had  1  not,  Miss  Mewlstone?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  just  so,"  returned  Miss  Mewlstone.  She 
always  called  her  patroness  "  my  dear." 

"  Miss  Mewlstone  gave  me  the  heads  of  the  sermon,  so  it 
was  not  quite  labor  lost,  as  regards  one  of  your  flock.  I  am 
afraid  you  think  me  a  black  sheep  because  I  stay  away  so  often 
— a  very  black  sheep,  eh,  Mr.  Drummond?" 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge,"  he  said,  still  more  awkwardly. 
"  Headaches  are  very  fair  excuses;  and  if  one  be  not  blessed 
with  good  health — " 

"  My  health  is  perfect,"  she  returned,  interrupting  him 
ruthlessly.  "  I  have  no  such  convenient  plea  under  which  to 
shelter  myself.  Miss  Mewlstone  suffers  far  more  from  head- 
aches than  I  do.     Don't  you.  Miss  Mewlstone?" 

"  Just  so;  yes,  indeed,  my  dear,"  proceeded  softly  from  the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  commenced  Mr.  Drummond,  in  a 
sympathizing  tone  of  voice.  But  his  tormentor  again  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  1  am  a  sad  backslider,  am  1  not?  I  wonder  if  you  have  a 
sermon  ready  for  me?  Do  you  lecture  your  parishioners,  Mr. 
Drummond,  rich  as  well  as  poor?  What  a  pity  it  is  you  are 
so  young!  Lectures  are  more  suitable  with  gray  hair;  a  hoa>'y 
head  might  have  some  chance  against  my  satire.     A  womap'^ 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  138 

tongue  is  a  difficult  thing  to  keep  in  order,  is  it  not?    1  dare 
say  you  find  that  with  Miss  Mattie?'* 

Mr.  Drummond  was  literally  on  thorns.  He  had  no  re- 
partee ready.  She  was  secretly  exasperating  him  as  usual, 
making  his  youth  a  reproach,  and  rendering  it  impossible  for 
him  to  be  his  natural,  frank  self  with  her.  In  her  presence  he 
was  always  at  a  disadvantage.  She  seemed  to  take  stock  of  his 
learning  and  to  mock  at  the  idea  of  his  pastoral  claims.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  she  had  called  herself  a  black  sheep,  or  had 
spoken  of  her  scanty  attendance  at  church.  But  as  yet  he  had 
not  dared  to  rebuke  iier:  he  had  a  feeling  that  she  might  fling 
back  his  rebuke  with  a  jest,  and  his  dignity  forbade  this. 
Some  day  he  owed  it  to  his  conscience  to  speak  a  word  to  her 
— to  tell  her  of  the  evil  effects  of  such  an  example;  but  the 
convenient  season  had  not  yet  arrived. 

lie  was  casting  about  in  his  own  mind  for  some  weighty  sen- 
tence in  which  to  answer  her;  but  she  again  broke  in  upon  his 
silence : 

"  It  seems  that  I  am  to  escape  to-day.  I  hope  you  are  not 
a  lax  disciplinarian;  that  comes  of  being  young.  Youth  is 
more  tolerant,  they  say,  of  other  people's  errors:  it  has  its 
own  glass  houses  to  mind." 

"  You  are  too  clever  for  me,  Mrs.  Cheyne,"  returned  the 
young  man,  with  a  deprecating  smile  that  might  have  dis- 
armed her.  "  Ko,  I  have  not  come  to  lecture:  my  mission  is 
perfectly  peaceful,  as  befits  this  lovely  afternoon.  I  wonder 
what  you  ladies  find  to  do  all  day?"  he  continued,  abruptly 
changing  the  subject,  and  trying  to  find  something  that  would 
not  attract  her  satire. 

Mrs.  Cheyue  seemed  a  lictle  taken  aback  by  this  direct  ques- 
tion; and  then  sh6  drew  up  her  beautiful  head  a  little  haught- 
ily, and  laughed. 

"^h,  you  are  cunning,  Mr.  Drummond.  You  found  me 
disposed  to  take  the  offensive  in  the  matter  of  church-going, 
and  now  you  are  on  another  tack.  There  is  a  lecture  some- 
where in  the  background.  '  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee,'  etc. 
Now,  don't  frown" — as  Mr.  Drummond  knitted  his  brows 
and  really  looked  annoyed.  "  I  will  not  refuse  to  be  cate- 
chised." 

"I  should  not  presume  to  catechise  you,"  he  returned, 
hastily.  "  I  appeal  to  Miss  Mewlstone  if  my  question  were 
not  a  very  innocent  one." 

"  Just  so;  just  so,"  replied  Miss  Mewlstone;  but  she  looked 
a  little  alarmed  at  this  appeal.  "  Oh,  very  innocent;  oh, 
yery  go,  '* 


134  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  With  two  against  me  I  must  yield,"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  with  a  curl  of  lier  lip.  "  What  do  we  do  with  our 
time,  Miss  Mewlstone?  Your  occupation  speaks  for  itself:  it 
is  exquisitely  feminine.  Don't  tell  Miss  Matiie,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond,  but  1  never  work.  I  would  as  soon  arm  m3'Self  with  a 
dagger  as  a  needle  or  a  pair  of  scissors.  When  J  am  not  in 
the  air  I  paint.   1  only  lay  aside  my  palette  for  a  book." 

"  You  paint!"  exclaimed  Archie,  with  sudden  interest.  It 
was  the  first  piece  of  information  he  had  yet  gleaned. 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  indifferently:  "one  must  do  some- 
thing to  kill  time,  and  music  was  never  my  forte.  I  sketch 
and  draw  and  paint  after  my  own  sweet  will.  There  are  port- 
folios full  of  my  sketches  in  there  " — with  a  movement  of  her 
hand  toward  a  curtained  recess.  "  No,  I  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say;  you  will  ask  to  see  them;  but  I  never  show 
them  to  any  one.^' 

"  For  what  purpose,  then,  do  you  paint  them?"  were  the 
words  on  his  lips;  but  he  forebore  to  utter  them.  But  she 
read  the  question  in  his  eyes. 

"  Did  I  not  say  one  must  kill  time?"  she  returned,  rather  ir- 
ritably. "  The  occupation  is  soothing:  surely  that  is  reason 
enough." 

"  It  is  a  good  enough  reason,  I  suppose,"  he  replied,  reluc- 
tantly, for  surely  he  must  say  a  word  here;  "  but  one  need 
not  talk  about  killing  time,  with  so  much  that  one  could  do." 
Then  there  came  a  gleam  of  suppressed  mischief  in  her  eyes: 
"  Yes,  1  know:  you  may  spare  me  that.  1  will  listen  to  it 
all  next  Sunday,  if  you  will,  when  you  have  it  your  own  way, 
and  one  can  not  sin  against  decorum  and  answer  you.  Yes, 
yes,  there  h'.  so  much  to  do,  is  there  not? — hungry  people  to 
bo  fed,  and  sick  to  visit — all  sorts  of  disagreeables  that  people 
call  duties.  Ah,  I  am  a  sad  sinner!  I  only  draw  for  my  own 
amusement,  and  leave  the  poor  old  world  to  get  on  without 
mc.  What  a  burden  I  must  be  on  your  conscience,  Mr. 
Drummond— heavier  than  all  the  rest  of  your  parish!  What, 
are  you  going  already?  and  Miss  Mewlstone  has  never  given 
you  any  tea?" 

Then  Archie  explained,  very  shortly,  that  he  had  partaken 
of  that  beverage  at  Brooklyn,  and  his  Jeave-taking  was  rather 
more  formal  than  usual.  He  was  very  much  surprised,  as  he 
stood  at  the  hall  door,  that  always  stood  open  in  summer,  to 
hear  the  low  sweep  of  a  dress  over  the  tessellated  pavement  be- 
hind him,  and  to  see  a  white,  pudgy  hand  laid  on  his  coat- 
sleeve, 

"  My  dear  Miss  Mewlstone,  how  you  startled  me!" 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  135 

"Just  so;  yes,  I  am  afraid  I  did,  Mr.  Drummond;  but  I 
just  wanted  to  say,  never  oiiud  all  that  uonseuse.  Come  again; 
she  likes  to  see  you;  she  does,  indeed.  It  is  only  her  way  to 
talk  so;  she  means  no  harm,  poor  dear — oh,  none  at  all!*' 

''  Excuse  me,"  returned  Archie,  in  a  hurt  voice,  "  but  I 
think  you  are  mistaken.  Mrs.  Cheyne  does  not  care  for  my 
visits,  and  shows  me  she  does  not.  If  it  were  not  my  duty,  I 
should  uot  come  so  often." 

"  Ko,  no;  just  so;  but  all  the  same  it  rouses  her  and  does 
her  good.  It  is  a  bad  day  with  her,  poor  dear — the  very  day 
the  darlings  were  taken  ill,  four  years  ago.  Now,  don't  go 
away  and  fancy  things;  don't,  there's  a  dear  young  man.  Come 
as  often  as  you  can,  and  try  and  do  her  good." 

"Oh,  if  I  only  knew  how  that  is  to' be  done!"  returned 
Archie,  slowly;  but  he  was  mollified  in  spile  of  himself.  There 
were  tears  in  Miss  Mevvlstoae's  little  blue  eyes;  perhaps  she 
was  a  good  creature,  after  all. 

"  I  will  come  again,  but  not  just  yet,"  he  said,  nodding  to 
her  good-humoredly;  but  as  he  walked  down  the  road  he  told 
himself  that  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  never  before  made  herself  so 
disagreeable,  and  that  it  would  be  long  before  he  set  foot  in 
the  White  House  again. 


CHAPTER.  XVII. 

**A     FRIEND    IN     NEED." 

Human  nature  is  weak,  and  we  are  told  there  are  mixed 
motives  to  be  found  even  in  the  holiest  actions.  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  never  could  be  brought  to  acknowledge,  even  to  himself, 
the  reason  why  he  took  so  much  pains  to  compose  his  sermon 
for  that  Sunday.  Without  possessing  any  special  claim  to  elo- 
quence, he  had  always  been  earnest  and  painstaking,  bestowing 
much  labor  on  the  construction  and  finish  of  his  sentences, 
which  were  in  consequence  more  elaborate  than  original.  At 
limes,  when  he  took  less  pains  and  was  simpler  in  style,  he 
seldom  failed  to  satisfy  his  hearers.  His  voice  was  pleasant 
and  well  modulated,  and  his  delivery  remarkably  quiet  and 
free  from  any  tricks  of  gestures. 

But  on  this  occasion  his  subject  baffled  him;  he  wrote  and 
rewrote  whole  pages,  and  then  grew  discontented  with  his 
work.  On  the  Sunday  in  question  he  woke  with  the  convic- 
tion that  something  out  of  the  common  order  of  events  dis- 
tinguished the  day  from  other  days;  but  even  as  this  thought 
crossed  his  mind  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself,  and  was  in  con- 


136  ^ot  ukt  ofHtk  GrRLg. 

sequence  a  little  more  dictatorial  than  usual  at  the  breakfast- 
table. 

The  inhabitants  of  Hadleigh  were  well  accustomed  to  the 
presence  of  strangers  in  their  church.  In  the  season  there 
was  a  regular  influx  of  visitors  that  filled  the  lodging-houses 
^o  overllowiug.  Hadleigh  had  always  prided  itself  on  its  gen- 
tility. As  a  watering-place  it  was  select  and  exclusive:  only 
the  upper  middle  classes,  and  a  sprinkling  of  the  aristocracy, 
were  the  habitual  frequenters  of  the  little  town.  It  was  too 
quiet;  it  offered  too  few  attractions  to  draw  the  crowds  that 
flocked  to  other  places.  Mr.  Drummond's  congregation  was 
well  used  by  this  time  to  see  new  faces  in  the  strangers'  pew; 
nevertheless,,  a  little  thrill  of  something  like  surprise  and  ex- 
citement moved  a  few  of  the  younger  members  as  Nan  and 
her  sisters  walked  down  the  aisle,  with  their  mother  following 
them. 

"  The  mother  is  almost  as  good-looking  as  her  daughters,'* 
thought  Colonel  Middleton,  as  he  regarded  the  grou23  through 
his  gold-mounted  eyeglasses;  and  Miss  Middleton  looked  up 
for  an  instant  from  her  prayer-book.  Even  Mrs.  Cheyue 
roused  from  the  gloomy  abstraction  which  was  her  usual  ap- 
proach to  devotion,  and  looked  long  and  curiously  at  the  three 
girlish  faces  before  her.  It  was  refreshing  even  to  her  to  see 
anything  so  fresh  and  bright  looking. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  were  perfectly  oblivious  of  the  sensation 
they  were  making.  Nan's  pretty  face  was  a  trifle  clouded.' 
The  strange  surroundings,  the  sight  of  all  those  people  unknown 
to  them,  instead  of  the  dear,  familiar  faces  that  had  always 
been  before  her,  gave  the  girl  a  dreary  feeling  of  oppression^ 
and  dismay.  Her  voice  quavered  audibly  as  she  sang,  and  one* 
or  two  drops  fell  on  her  prayer-book  as  she  essayed  to  join  in 
the  petitions. 

"  Why  is  there  not  a  special  clause  in  the  Litany  for  those 
ivho  are  perplexed  and  in  poverty?  It  is  not  only  from  mur- 
ler  and  sudden  death  one  need  pray  to  be  delivered,"  thought 
Nan,  with  much  sinking  of  heart.  Oh,  how  helpless  they 
vere — so  young,  and  only  girls,  with  a  great  unknown  world 
iiefore  them,  and  Dick  away,  ignorant  of  their  troubles,  and 
'no  youthful  a  knight  to  win  his  spurs  and  pledge  himself  to 
Lheir  service! 

Nan's  sweet,  downcast  face  drew  many  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  the  great  square  pew  in  which  ihuy  sat.  Pbillis  intercepted 
some  of  these  looks,  as  her  atiention  insensibly  wandered  dur- 
ing the  service.  It  was  wrong,  terribly  wrong,  of  course,  but 
her  thoughts  would  not  concentrate  themselves  on  the  lesson 


NOT    iIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  187 

the  young  vicar  was  reading  in  his  best  style.  She  was  not 
heavy-hearted,  like  Nan;  on  the  contrary,  little  thrills  of  ex- 
citement, of  impatience,  of  repressed  amusement,  pervaded 
her  mind,  as  she  looked  at  the  strange  faces  round  her. 
"  They  would  not  be  long  strange,'^  she  thought:  "  some  of 
them  would  be  her  neighbors.  What  would  thev  say,  all  these 
people,  when  they  knew — "  And  here  Phillisheld  her  breath 
a  moment.  People  were  wondering  even  now  who  they  were. 
They  had  dressed  themselves  that  morning,  rehearsing  their 
parts,  as  it  were,  with  studied  simplicity.  The  gown  Nan 
wore  was  as  inexpensive  as  a  gown  could  be;  her  hat  was  a 
model  of  neatness  and  propriety;  nevertheless.  Phillis  groaned 
in  spirit  as  she  glanced  at  her.  Where  had  she  got  that  style? 
She  looked  like  a  young  princess  who  was  playing  at  j^rcadia. 
Would  people  ever  dare  to  ask  her  to  work  for  them?  Would 
they  not  beg  her  pardon,  and  cry  shame  on  themselves  for 
entertaining  such  a  thought  for  a  moment?  Phillis  almost 
envied  Nan,  who  was  shedding  salt  tears  on  her  prayer-book. 
She  thought  she  was  absorbed  in  her  devotions,  while  her  own 
thoughts  would  wander  so  sadly;  and  then  a  handsome  face  in 
the  opposite  pew  attracted  her  attention.  Surely  that  must 
be  Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  lived  in  the  White  House  near  them,  of 
whom  Nan  had  talked — the  poor  woman  who  had  lost  hus- 
band and  children  and  who  lived  in  solitary  state.  The  ser- 
mon had  now  commenced,  but  Phillis  turned  a  deaf  ear  to 
the  sentences  over  which  Mr.  Drummond  had  expended  so 
much  labor:  her  attention  was  riveted  by  the  gloomy,  beauti- 
ful face  before  her,  which  alternately  attracted  and  repelled 
her. 

As  though  disturbed  by  some  magnetic  influence,  Mrs. 
Cheyne  raised  her  eyes  slowly  and  looked  at  Phillis.  Some- 
thing in  the  girl's  keen-eyed  glance  seemed  to  move  her 
strangely.  The  color  crept  into  her  pale  face,  and  her  lip 
quivered;  a  moment  afterward  she  drew  down  her  veil  and 
leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  Phillis.  somewhat  abashed,  en- 
deavored fruitlessly  to  gather  up  the  threads  of  the  sermon. 

"  There,  it  is  over!  We  have  made  our  debvt,"  she  said, 
a  little  recklessly,  as  they  walked  back  to  Beach  House,  where 
Mrs.  Challoner  and  Dulce  were  still  staying.  And  as  Nan 
looked  at  her,  a  little  shocked  and  mystified  by  this  unusual 
flippancy,  she  continued  in  the  same  excited  way: 

"  Was  it  not  strange  Mr.  Drummond  choosing  that  text, 
*  Consider  the  lilies?'  He  looked  at  us;  I  am  sure  he  did, 
mother.  It  was  quite  a  tirade  against  dress  and  vanity;  but  I 
am  sure  no  one  could  find  fault  with  us." 


138  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  It  was  a  very  good  sermon,  and  I  think  he  seems  a  very 
clever  young  man/'  returned  Mrs,  Challoner,  with  a  sigh,  for 
the  service  had  been  a  long  weariness  for  her.  She  had  not 
been  unmindful  of  the  attention  her  girls  had  caused;  but  if 
people  only  knew —  And  here  the  poor  lady  had  clasped  her 
hands  and  put  up  petitions  that  were  certainly  not  in  the 
litany. 

Phillis  seemed  about  to  say  something,  but  she  checked  her- 
self, and  they  were  all  a  little  silent  until  they  reached  the 
house.  This  first  Sunday  was  an  infliction  to  them  all;  it  was 
a  day  of  enforced  idleness.  There  was  too  much  time  for 
thought  and  room  for  regret.  In  spite  of  all  Pliillis's  efforts — 
and  she  rattled  on  cheerily  most  of  the  afternoon — Mrs.  Chal- 
loner got  one  of  her  bad  headaches  from  worry,  and  withdrew 
to  her  room,  attended  by  Dulce,  who  volunteered  to  bathe  her 
head  and  read  her  to  sleep. 

The  church-bells  were  just  ringing  for  the  evening  service, 
and  ISIan  rose,  as  usual,  to  put  on  her  hat,  but  Phillis  sto^jped 
her: 

*'  Oh,  Nan,  do  not  let  us  go  to  church  again  this  evening. 
I  am  terribly  wicked  to-day,  I  know,  but  somehow  1  can 
not  keep  my  thoughts  in  order.  So  what  is  the  use  of  makiug 
the  attempt?  Let  us  take  out  our  prayer-books  and  sit  on 
the  beach:  it  is  low  tide,  and  a  walk  over  the  sands  would  do 
us  good  after  our  dreadful  week." 

"  If  you  are  sure  it  would  not  be  wrong,'*  hesitated  Nan, 
whose  conscience  was  a  little  hard  to  convince  in  such  matters. 

"  No,  no.  And  the  run  will  do  Laddie  good.  The  poor 
little  fellow  has  been  shut  up  in  this  room  all  day.  We  need 
not  tell  the  mother.  She  would  be  shocked,  you  know.  But 
we  have  never  stayed  away  from  church  before,  have  we? 
And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  continued  Phillis,  with  an  un- 
steady laugh  that  betrayed  agitation  to  her  sister's  ear,  "  though 
I  faced  it  very  well  this  morning,  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  go 
through  it  again.  People  stared  so.  And  1  could  not  help 
thinking  all  the  time,  '  if  they  only  knew!' — that  was  the 
thought  that  kept  buzzing  in  my  head.  If  only  Mr.  Drum- 
moud  and  all  those  people  knew!" 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  people  think?"  returned  Nan. 
But  she  said  it  languidly.  In  her  heart  she  was  secretly  dis- 
mayed at  this  sudden  failure  of  courage.  Phillis  had  been 
quite  bold  and  merry  all  the  day,  almost  reckless  in  her 
speeches. 

"  I  am  glad  we  came.  This  will  do  us  both  good,"  said 
lii&ii,  gently,  as  they  left  the  Parade  behind  them,  and  went 


HOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  139 

fiiowly  over  the  shelving  beach,  with  Laddie  rolling  like  a 
clumsy  black  ball  about  their  feet.  Just  before  them  there 
was  a  pretty,  black-timbered  cottage,  covered  with  roses,  stand- 
ing quite  low  on  the  shore,  and  beyond  this  was  nothing  but 
shingly  beach,  and  a  stretch  of  wet,  yellow  sand,  on  which  the 
sun  was  shining.  There  was  a  smooth  white  bowlder  stand- 
ing quite  alone,  on  which  the  girls  seated  themselves.  The 
tide  was  still  going  out,  and  the  low  wash  of  waves  sounded 
pleasantly  in  their  ears  as  they  advanced  and  then  receded.  A 
shimmer  of  silvery  light  played  upon  the  water,  and  a  rosy 
tinge  began  to  tint  the  horizon. 

"  How  quiet  and  still  it  is!"  said  Phillis,  in  an  awe-struck 
voice.  "  When  we  are  tired  we  must  come  here  to  rest  our- 
selves. How  prettily  those  baby  waves  seem  to  babble!  it  is 
just  like  the  gurgle  of  baby  laughter.  And  look  at  Laddie 
splashing  in  that  pool:  he  is  after  that  poor  little  crab.  Come 
here,  you  rogue!"  But  Laddie,  intent  upon  his  sport,  only 
cocked  his  ear  restlessly  and  refused  to  obey. 

"  Yes,  it  is  lovely,"  returned  Kan.  "  There  is  quite  a  sil- 
very path  over  the  water;  by  and  by  the  sunset  clouds 
will  biie  beautiful.  But  what  is  the  matter,  dear?"  as  Phillis 
sighed  and  leaned  heavily  against  her;  and  then,  as  she 
turned,  she  saw  the  girl's  eyes  were  wet. 

"Oh,  Nan!  shall  we  have  strength  for  it?  That  is  what 
I  keep  asking  myself  to-day.  No,  you  must  not  look  so 
frightened.  I  am  brave  enough  generally,  and  1  do  not  mean 
to  lose  pluck;  but  now  and  then  the  thought  will  come  to  me. 
Shall  we  have  strength  to  go  through  with  it?" 

"  We  must  think  of  each  other;  that  must  keep  us  up,"  re- 
turned Nan,  whose  ready  sympathy  fully  understood  her  sis- 
ter's mood.  Only  to  Nan  would  Phillis  ever  own  her  failure 
of  courage  or  fears  for  the  future.  But  now  and  then  the 
brave  young  heart  needed  comfort,  and  always  found  it  in 
Nan's  sympathy. 

"It  was  looking  at  your  dear,  beautiful  face  that  made  me 
feel  so  suddenly  bad  this  morning,"  interrupted  Phillis,  with 
a  sort  of  sob.  "It  was  not  the  people  so  much;  they  only 
amused  and  excited  me,  and  1  kept  thinking,  '  If  they  only 
knew!'  But,  Nan,  when  I  looked  at  you-— oh,  why  are  you  so 
nice  and  pretty,  if  you  have  got  to  do  this  horrid  work?" 

"  I  am  not  a  bit  nicer  than  you  and  Dulce,"  laughed  Nan, 
embracing  her,  for  she  never  could  be  made  to  understand 
that  by  most  people  she  was  considered  their  superior  in  good 
looks;  the  bare  idea  made  her  angry.  "  It  is  worse  for  you, 
Phillis,  because  you  are  so  clever  and  have  so  many  ideas. 


140  irOT    LIKB    OTHEU    61tlL8. 

But  there!  we  must  not  go  on  pitying  each  other,  or  else,  in= 
deed,  we  shall  undermioe  our  little  stock  of  strength." 

"  But  don't  you  feel  terribly  unhappy  sometimes?"  persist- 
ed Phi  His.  Neither  of  them  mentioned  Dick,  and  yet  he  was 
in  both  their  minds. 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  returned  Nan,  simply;  and  then  she 
added,  with  quaintuess  that  was  pathetic:  "  You  see,  we  are 
s>  unused  to  the  feeling,  and  it  is  overhard  at  first;  by  and 
by  we  shall  be  more  used  to  not  having  our  own  way  in 
thiiigs. " 

"  1  think  I  could  give  up  that  readily,  if  1  could  be  sure 
you -and  Dulce  were  not  miserable,"  sighed  Phillis. 

"  That  is  what  I  say,"  returned  Nan.  "  Don't  you  see  how 
simple  and  beautiful  that  is?  Thinking  of  each  other  gives 
us  strength  to  go  through  with  it  all.  This  evening  trying  to 
cheer  you  up  has  done  me  good.  1  do  not  feel  the  least  afraid 
of  people  to-night.  Looking  at  that  sea  and  sky  makes  one 
feel  the  littleness  and  unreality  of  all  these  worries.  What 
does  it  matter— what  does  anything  matter — if  we  only  do  our 
duty  and  love  each  other,  and  submit  to  the  Divine  will?" 
finished  Nan,  reverently,  who  seldom  spoke  of  her  deeper 
feelings,  even  to  Phillis. 

**  Nan,  you  are  a  saint,"  returned  Phillis,  enthusiastically. 
The  worried  look  had  left  her  eyes;  they  looked  clear  and 
bright  as  usual.  "  Oh,  what  a  heathen  I  have  been  to-day! 
but,  as  Dulce  is  so  fond  of  saying,  '  I  am  going  to  be  good.' 
1  will  read  the  evening  Psalms  to  you,  in  token  of  my  resolu- 
tion, if  you  like.  But  wait:  is  there  not  some  one  coming 
across  the  sand?  How  eerie  it  looks,  such  a  tall,  black  figure 
standing  between  the  earth  and  sky." 

Phillis  had  good  sight,  or  she  would  hardly  have  distin- 
guished the  figure,  which  was  now  motionless,  at  such  a  dis- 
tance. In  another  moment  she  even  announced  that  its  dra- 
peries showed  it  to  be  a  woman,  before  she  opened  her  book  and 
commenced  reading. 

There  is  something  very  striking  in  a  lonely  central  figure 
in  a  scene,  the  outline  cuts  so  sharply  against  the  horizon. 
Nan's  eyes  seemed  riveted  on  it  as  she  listened  to  Phillis'a 
voice;  it  seemed  to  her  as  immovable  as  a  sphinx,  its  rigidity 
lending  a  sort  of  barrenness  and  forlornness  to  the  landscape, 
a  black  edition  of  human  nature  set  under  a  violet  and  opal 
sky. 

She  almost  started  when  it  moved,  at  last,  with  a  steady 
bearing,  as  it  seemed,  toward  them;  then  curiosity  qaiokenea 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKL^.  l4l 

into  intereat,  aud  she  touched  Phillis's  arm,  whispering  breath- 
lessly: 

"  The  sphiux  moves!  Look — is  not  that  Mrs.  Cheyne,  the 
lady  who  lives  at  the  White  House  near  us,  who  always  looks 
so  lonely  and  unhappy?" 

"  Hush!"  returned  Phillis,  "  she  will  hear  you;"  and  then 
Mrs.  Cheyne  approached  with  the  same  swift,  even  walk.  She 
looked  at  them  for  a  moment  as  she  passed,  with  a  sort  of 
well-bred  surprise  in  her  air,  as  though  she  marveled  to  see 
them  there;  her  black  dress  touched  Laddie,  and  he  caught  at 
it  with  an  impotent  bark. 

The  sisters  must  have  made  a  pretty  picture,  as  they  sat  al- 
most clinging  together  on  the  stone;  one  of  Nan's  little  white 
hands  rested  on  Laddie's  head,  the  other  lay  on  Phillis's  lap. 
Phillis  glanced  up  from  her  book,  keen-eyed  and  alert  in  a 
moment;  she  turned  her  head  to  look  at  the  stranger  that  had 
excited  her  interest,  and  then  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  little  cry 
of  dismay. 

"  Oh,  Nan,  I  am  afraid  she  has  hurt  herself!  She  gave 
such  a  slip  just  now.  I  wonder  what  has  happened?  She  is 
leaning  against  the  break-water,  too.  Shall  we  go  and  ask 
her  if  she  feels  ill  or  anything?" 

"  You  may  go,"  was  Nan's  answer.  Nevertheless,  she  fol- 
lowed Phillis. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  looked  up  at  them  a  little  sharply  as  they  came 
toward  her.     Her  face  was  gray  and  contracted  with  pain. 

"  I  have  slipped  on  a  wet  stone,  and  my  foot  has  somehow 
tarned  on  me,"  she  said,  quickly,  as  Phillis  ran  up  to  her. 
"It  was  very  stupid.  I  can  not  think  how  it  happened;  but 
I  have  certainly  sprained  my  ankle.  It  gives  me  such  pain. 
I  can  not  move." 

"  Oh,  dear,  1  am  so  sorry!"  returned  Phillis,  good-natur- 
edly; and,  in  the  most  natural  manner,  she  knelt  down  on  the 
beach  and  took  the  injured  foot  in  her  hands.  "  Yes,  I  can 
feel  it  is  swelling  dreadfully.  We  must  try  and  get  your  boot 
ofi  before  the  attemptgets  too  painful."  And  she  commenced 
unfastening  it  with  deft  fingers. 

"  How  am  I  to  walk  without  my  boot?"  observed  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  a  little  dryly,  as  she  looked  down  on  the  girl;  but 
here  Nan  interposed  in  her  brisk,  sensible  way: 

"  You  must  not  walk*  you  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing. 
We  will  wet  our  handkerchiefs  in  the  salt  water,  and  bind 
up  your  anlde  as  well  as  we  can,  and  then  one  of  us  will  walk 
over  to  the  White  House  for  assistance.  Your  servants  could 
easily  obtain  a  wheeled  chair." 


i42  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  You  knew!  lived  at  the  White  House,  then?"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  arching  her  eyebrows  in  some  surprise;  but  she 
offered  no  opposition  to  Kan's  plan.  The  removal  of  the 
boot  had  brought  on  a  sensation  of  faintness,  and  she  sat  per- 
fectly still  and  quiet  while  the  girls  swathed  the  foot  in  w,et 
bandages.  / 

"  It  is  a  little  easier  now,"  she  observed,  gratefully.  "  How 
neatly  you  have  done  it!  you  must  be  used  to  such  work.'  1 
am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you  both  for  your  kindly  h|blp; 
and  now  I  am  afraid  1  mast  trouble  you  further  if  1  am  ever 
to  reach  home."  / 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  returned  Nan,  cheerfully;  "  but  I  will 
leave  my  sister,  for  fear  you  should  feel  faint  again:  besidfes, 
it  is  so  lonely." 

"  Oh,  I  am  used  to  loneliness!"  was  the  reply,  as  a  bitljer 
expression  crossed  her  face. 

Phillis,  who  was  still  holding  the  sprained  foot  in  her  lap. 
looked  up  in  her  eager  way.  f 

"  I  think  one  gets  used  to  everything;  that  is  a  merciful  dis- 
pensation; but,  all  the  same,  I  hope  you  will  not  send  me  away. 
I  dearly  like  to  be  useful;  and  at  present  my  object  is  to  pre- 
vent you  foot  coming  in  contact  with  these  stones.  Are  you 
really  in  less  pain  now?    You  look  dreadfully  pale. "  I 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing!"  she  returned,  with  a  smile  so  sud- 
den and  sweet  that  it  quite  startled  Phillis,  for  it  lighted  up 
her  face  like  sunshine;  but  almost  before  she  caught  it,  it  was 
gone.  "  How  good  you  are  to  me!  and  yet  I  am  a  perfect 
stranger;"  and  then  she  added,  as  though  with  an  after- 
thought, "  But  1  saw  you  in  church  this  morning."  / 

Phillis  nodded;  the  que«tiou  certainly  required  no  answen 

"  If  1  knew  you  better,  I  should  ask  why  your  eyes 
questioned  me  so  closely  this  morning.  Do  you  know,  Misp — 
Miss — "  And  here  she  hesitated  and  smiled,  waiting  for  Phil- 
lis to  fill  up  the  blank.  I  . 

"  My  name  is  Challoner — Phillis  Challoner,"  replied  Phil- 
lis, coloring  a  little;  and  then  she  added,  frankly:  "  lamafiiaid 
you  thought  me  rude,  and  that  I  stared  at  you,  but  [ny 
thoughts  were  all  topsy-turvy  this  morning,  and  refused  to!  be 
kept  in  order.  One  feels  curious,  somehow,  about  the  people 
among  whom  one  has  come  to  live." 

"  Have  you  come  to  live  here?"  asked  Mrs.  Cheyne,  ea- 
gerly, and  a  gleam  of  pleasure  shot  into  her  dark  eyes — "  you, 
and  your  mother  and  sisters?" 

"Yes;  we  have  just  come  to  the  Friary — a  little  cottage 
standing  ou  the  Braidwood  Road. " 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  143 

Her  manner  became  a  little  constrained  and  reserved  as  she 
eaid  this;  the  charming  frankness  disappeared. 

"  The  Friary  I"  echoed  Mrs.  Cheyne;  and  then  she  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  rested  searchingly  on  Phillis. 
"That  shabby  little  cottage!"  was  the  thought  that  filled 
up  the  outline  of  her  words;  but,  though  she  felt  inward 
siirorise  and  a  momentary  disappointment,  there  was  no 
change  in  the  graciousuess  of  her  manner.  Never  before  had 
she  30  thawed  to  any  one;  but  the  girl's  sweet  ministry  had 
Wiin  her  heart.  "  Then  you  will  be  near  me — just  at  my 
gates?  We  shall  be  close  neighbors.  I  hope  you  will  como 
anl  see  me,  Miss  Challoner." 

?oor  Phillis!  the  blood  suddenly  rushed  over  her  face  at 
this.  How  was  she  to  answer  without  appearing  ungracious? 
anl  yet  at  this  moment  how  could  she  explain:  "If  you 
p](ase,  we  are  dress-makers?"  Oh,  no!  such  words  as  these 
vould  not  get  themselves  said.  It  was  too  abrupt,  too 
sidden,  altogether;  she  was  not  prepared  for  such  a  thing. 
Oi,  why  had  she  not  gone  to  the  White  House  instead  of  Xan? 
Htr  officiousness  had  brought  this  on  her.  She  could  not  put 
tb  poor  foot  off  her  lap  and  get  up  and  walk  away  to  cool  her 
hu  cheeks. 

"  Thank  you;  you  are  very  good,"  she  stammered,  feeling 
ierself  an  utter  fool;  she — Phillis — the  clever  oue! 

Mrs.  Cheyne  seemed  rather  taken  aback  by  the  girl's  sudden 
rserve  and  embarrassment. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  should  call  first,  and  thank  you  for 
yoir  kindness,"  she  returned,  quickly;  "  but  1  was  afraid  my 
tot  would  keep  me  too  long  a  prisoner.  And,  as  we  are  to 
be  leighbors,  I  hardly  thought  it  necessary  to  stand  on  cere- 
moiy;  but  if  you  would  rather  wait — " 

'  Oh,  no,"  replied  Phillis,  in  despair;  "  we  will  not  trouble 
youto  do  that!  Nan  and  I  will  call  and  ask  after  your  foot, 
and  then  we  will  explain.  There  is  a  little  difficulty;  you 
mieit  not  care  to  be  friends  with  us  if  you  knew,"  went  on 
Pliilis,  with  burning  cheeks;  "  but  we  will  call  and  explain. 
Oh, yes,  Nan  and  I  will  call." 

'Do;  I  shall  expect  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne,  half 
mnsed  and  half  mystified  at  the  girl's  obvious  confusion. 
iHiat  did  the  child  n;ean?  They  were  gentlepeople  —  one 
iould  see  that  at  a  glance.  They  were  in  reduced  circum- 
itances;  they  had  come  down  to  Hadleigh  to  retrench.  Well, 
vhat  did  that  matter?  People's  wealth  or  poverty  never 
ffected  her;  she  would  think' none  the  less  well  of  them  for 
hat;  glie  would  call  at  the  Friary  and  entertain  them  at  the 


144  NOT    LlivB    OTHER    GIRLS. 

White  House  with  as  much  pleasure  as  though  they  lived  in 
a  palace.  The  little  mystery  piqued  her,  and  yet  excited  her 
interest.  It  was  long  since  she  had  interested  herself  so  muo/i 
in  anything.  To  Miss  Middleton  she  had  always  been  ccad 
and  uncertain.  Air.  Drummond  she  treated  with  a  mixtiire 
of  satire  and  haughtiness  that  aroused  her  for  a  moment  toner 
earlier  and  better  self.  She  conceived  an  instantaneous  lilting 
for  the  girl  who  looked  at  her  with  such  grave,  kindly  gla/ces. 
"  I  shall  expect  you,  remember,'^  she  repeated,  aslSIan  atlthat 
moment  appeared  in  sight.  I   1 

"  Oh,  yes,  Nan  and  1  will  come,"  returned  Phillis,  slowy, 
and  almost  solemnly;  but  an  instant  afterward  a  flicke/of 
amusement  played  round  her  mouth.  It  was  painful/  of 
course;  but,  still,  how  droll  it  was!  1 

"  llow  long  you  have  been,  Nan!"  she  exclaimed,  a  liltle 
unreasonablv,  as  Nan  ran  toward  them,  flushed  and  breathless 
from  her  haste. 

"  It  has  not  been  long  to  me,"  observed  Mrs.  Cheynl, 
pointedly.  She  talked  more  to  Nan  than  to  Phillis  after  ths, 
until  the  servants  appeared  with  the  wheeled  chair;  but  never- 
theless her  last  words  were  for  Phillis.  "  Eemember  ywr 
promise,"  was  all  she  said,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  tie 
girl;  and  Phillis  tried  to  smile  in  answer,  though  it  was  ratfer 
a  failure,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

DOROTHY  BRINGS  IN  THE  BEST  CHINA. 

*'  What  a  fool  1  made  of  myself  yesterday!  but  tojlay 
Richard  is  himself  again!"  said  PhiHis,  as  she  gatheref  up 
another  muslin  curtain  in  her  arms  ready  to  hand  to  Ian, 
who  was  mounted  on  some  steps.  It  was  only  Monday  ater- 
uoon,  but  the  girls  had  done  wonders:  the  work-room,  as  hey 
called  it,  was  nearly  finished.  The  great  carved  wardrobe  and 
mahogany  table  had  been  polished  by  Dorothy's  strong  hnds. 
Mrs.  Challoner's  easy-chair  and  little  work-table  at  one  is'iii- 
dow  looked  quite  inviting;  the  sewing-machine  and  Nan's  |osV 
wood  davenport  were  in  their  places.  A  hanging  cupboard  c[ 
old  china,  and  a  few  well-bound  books,  gave  a  little  coloring 
and  finish,  and  one  or  two  fine  old  prints  that  had  hung  in  thi 
dining-room  at  Glen  Cottage  had  been  disposed  with  advari 
tage  on  the  newly  papered  walls.  An  inlaid  clock  ticked  o\ 
the  mantel-piece,  and  some  handsome  ruby-colored  vases  stool 
on  either  side  of  it.  Nan  was  quite  right  when  she  had  glance 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS.  145 

rountl  her  a  few  minutes  ago  in  a  satisfied  manner  and  said  no 
one  need  be  ashamed  of  living  in  such  a  room. 

"  Our  pretty  things  make  it  look  almost  too  nice  for  the 
purpose,"  she  continued,  handling  a  precious  relic,  a  Sevres 
cuiD  and  saucer,  that  had  been  her  especial  pride  in  old  days. 
"  I  think  you  were  wrong,  Phil,  not  to  have  the  china  in  the 
other  room." 

"No,  indeed;  1  want  people  to  see  it  and  be  struck  with 
our  taste,"  was  Phillis's  frank  answer.  "  Think  what  pleas- 
ure it  will  give  the  poor  ladies  when  their  dresses  are  beiug 
tried  on.  Don't  you  remember  the  basket  of  wax  fruit  afc 
Miss  Slinders's,  when  we  were  small  children?  I  thought  it 
the  loveliest  work  of  art,  and  feasted  my  eyes  all  the  time 
Miss  Slinders  was  fitting  my  pink  frock.  Now,  our  pictures 
and  china  will  refresh  people's  eyes  in  the  same  way." 

Xan  smiled  and  shook  her  head  as  she  dusted  and  arranged 
her  treasures.  The  china  was  very  dear  to  her— far  more  than 
the  books  Phillis  was  arraugiug  on  the  chiffonier.  The  Dres- 
den figures  that  Dick  had  given  to  her  mother  were  among 
them.  She  did  not  care  for  strangers  to  look  at  them  and 
appraise  their  value.  They  were  home  treasures — sacred  relics 
of  their  past".  The  last  time  she  had  dusted  them,  a  certain 
young  man  of  her  acquaintance  had  walked  through  the  open 
window  whistling  "  Blue  bonnets  over  the  Border,"  and  had 
taken  up  his  station  beside  her,  hindering  her  work  with  his 
chattering.  Dulce  v.'as  in  the  upper  regions,  unpacking  a  box 
in  her  mother's  room.  Mrs.  Challoner  was  coming  home  the 
next  da}',  and  Dorothy  and  she  were  hard  at  work  getting 
things  in  order. 

When  Phillis  made  her  downright  speech.  Nan  looked  down 
from  her  lofty  perch,  and  held  out  her  arms  for  the  eurlain. 

"  Richard  is  always  himself,  my  dear,"  she  said,  siftly. 
"  Do  you  know  when  you  are  down,  Phil,  1  feel  as  though 
we  are  all  at  a  stand-still,  and  there's  no  getting  on  at  all; 
and  then  at  one  of  your  dear,  droll  speeches  the  sunshine  comes 
out  again,  and  we  are  all  as  right  as  possible." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,"  was  Phillis's  blunt  answer;  but 
she  could  not  help  being  pleased  at  the  compliment.  She 
looked  up  archly  afc  Nan,  as  the  mass  of  soft  white  drapery 
lay  between  them;  and  then  they  both  broke  into  a  laugh, 
just  as  two  shadows  seemed  to  glide  past  the  window,  and  a 
moment  afterward  the  house-bell  sounded.  "  Visitors — oh. 
Nan!"  And  Phillis  glanced  down  at  the  neat  bib-apron  that 
she  wore  over  her  cambric  dress. 

"  Don't  be  afraid;  Dorothy  will  have  too  ranch  sense  to  ad- 


146  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

mifc  them/*  returned  Nan,  quite  iiidiSereutly,  as  she  went  up 
a  step  higher  to  hang  up  the  curtain. 

Phillis  was  still  holding  it;  but  her  manner  was  not  quite  so 
well  assured.  She  thought  she  heard  Dulce's  voice  in  con- 
fabulation with  the  stranger.  A  moment  afterward  Dulce 
came  briskly  into  the  room. 

"  Nan,  Mr.  Drummond  and  his  sister  have  kindly  called  to 
see  us.  We  are  not  in  order,  of  course.  Oh,  dear!''  as  Nan 
looked  down  on  them  with  startled  eyes,  not  venturing  to  de- 
scend from  her  perch.  "  I  ought  not  to  have  brought  them 
in  here,"  looking  half  mischievously  and  half  guiltily  at  the 
young  clergyman,  who  stood  hat  in  hand  on  the  threshold. 

"  It  is  1  who  ought  not  to  have  intruded,"  he  began,  in  a 
perfect  agony  of  embarrassment,  blushing  over  his  face  like  a 
girl  as  Nan  looked  down  at  him  in  much  dignity;  but  Mattie, 
who  was  behind  him,  pushod  forward  in  her  usual  bustling 
way. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Challoner,  it  is  too  bad!  I  told  Archie  that  we 
ought  not  come  too  soon — "  but  Phillis  stopped  her  with  an 
outstretched  hand  of  welcome. 

"  What  is  too  bad?  I  call  it  very  kind  and  friendly  of  you 
both;  one  hardly  expected  to  find  such  good  neighbors.  Nan, 
if  that  curtain  is  finished  I  think  you  had  better  come  down. 
Take  care;  those  steps  are  rickety.  Perhaps  Mr.  Drummond 
will  help  you." 

"  Let  me  do  the  other  ones  for  you.  1  don't  think  those 
steps  are  safe!"  exclaimed  Archie,  with  sudden  inspiration. 

No  one  would  have  believed  such  a  thing  of  him.  Mattie's 
eyes  grew  quite  round  and  fixed  with  astonishment  at  the 
sight.  He  had  not  even  shaken  hands  with  Nan,  yet  there  he 
was,  mounted  in  her  place,  slipping  in  the  hooks  with  dex- 
terous hands,  while  Nan  quietly  held  up  the  curtain. 

Months  afterward  the  scene  came  back  on  Archibald  Drum- 
mond with  a  curious  thrill  half  of  pain  and  half  of  amuse- 
ment. How  had  he  done  it?  he  wondered.  What  had  made 
him  all  at  once  act  in  a  way  so  unlike  himself?  for,  with  the 
best  intention,  he  was  always  a  little  stiff  and  constrained  with 
strangers.  Yet  there  he  was  laughing  as  though  he  had 
known  them  all  his  life,  because  Nan  had  rebuked  him  gravely 
for  slipping  two  hooks  into  one  ring.  Months  afterward  he 
recalled  it  all:  Nan  glancing  up  at  him  with  quietly  amused 
eyes,  Phillis  standing  apart,  looking  quaint  and  picturesque  in 
her  bib-apron,  Dulce  with  the  afternoon  sunshine  lighting  up 
her  brown  hair;  the  low,  old-fashioned  room,  with  the  great 
carved  wardrobe,  and  the  cupboard  of  dainty  china;  the  shady 


ifOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  14t 

little  ]awii  outside,  with  Laddie  rolling  among  the  daisies. 
What  made  it  suddenly  start  up  in  his  memory  like  a  picture 
one  has  seen  and  never  quite  forgotten? 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Urummond.  You  have  done  it  so  nice- 
ly," said  Nan,  with  the  utmost  gravity,  as  he  lingered,  almost 
unwilling  to  descend  to  conventionality  again.  Dulce  and 
Phillis  were  busily  engaged  looping  up  the  folds.  "  ISI"ovy  we 
will  ask  Dorothy  to  remove  the  steps,  and  then  we  can  sit 
down  comfortably.'* 

But  here  Archie  interposed: 

"  Why  need  you  call  any  one?  Tell  me  where  I  shall  put 
them."  Mattie  b»-oke  into  a  loud  laugh.  She  could  not  help 
it.  It  was  too  droll  of  Archie.  She  must  write  and  tell 
Grace. 

Archie  heard  the  laugh  as  he  marched  out  of  the  room  with 
his  burden,  and  it  provoked  him  excessively.  He  made  some 
excuse  about  admiring  Laddie,  and  went  out  on  the  lawn  for 
a  few  minutes,  accompanied  by  Nan.  When  they  came  back 
the  curtains  were  finished,  and  the  two  girls  were  talking  to 
Mattie.     Mattie  seemed  quite  at  ease  with  them. 

''  We  have  such  a  dear  old  garden  at  the  vicarage,'*  she  was 
saying,  as  her  brother  came  into  the  room.  "  1  am  not  much 
of  a  gardener  myself,  but  Archie  works  for  hours  at  a  time. 
He  talks  of  getting  a  set  of  tennis  down  from  town.  AVe 
think  it  will  help  to  bring  people  together.  You  must  prom- 
ise to  come  and  play  sometimes  of  an  afternoon  when  you 
have  got  the  cottage  in  order." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Phillis;  and  then  Nan  and  she  ex- 
changed looks,  A  sort  of  blankness  came  over  the  sisters' 
faces— a  sudden  dying  out  of  the  brightness  and  fun. 

Mr.  Drummond  grew  a  little  alarmed: 

*'  1  hope  you  will  not  disappoint  my  sister.  She  has  few 
friends,  and  is  rather  lonely,  missing  so  many  sisters;  and  you 
are  such  close  neighbors. " 

*'  Yes,  we  are  close  neighbors,"  returned  Phillis.  But  her 
voice  was  a  little  less  clear  than  usual;  and,  to  Archie's  aston- 
ishment—for they  all  seemed  talking  comfortably  together 
—her  face  had  grown  suddenly  pale.  "  But  you  must  not 
think  us  unkind  if  we  refuse  your  hospitality,"  she  went  on, 
looking  straight  at  him,  and  not  at  Mattie.  "  Owing  to  pain- 
ful circumstances,  we  have  made  up  our  minds  that  no  such 
pleasures  are  in  store  for  us.  We  must  learn  to  do  without 
things;  must  we  not,  Nan?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  returned  Nan,  very  gravelv.  And  then 
the  tears  came  into  Dulce's  eyes.     Was  Phillis  actually  going 


148  HOl'    LIKE    OTilEil    GIRLS, 

to  tell  them?     She  would  have  run  away,  ouly  she  was  ashamed 
of  such  cowardice. 

'^*  1  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  do  without  friends,'*  stam- 
mered Archie.  "That  would  be  too  painful  to  bear."  He 
thought  they  were  excusing  themselves  from  partaking  of  their 
neighbors'  hospitality  because  they  were  too  poor  to  return  it, 
and  wanted  to  set  them  at  their  ease.  "  You  may  have  rea- 
sons for  wishing  to  be  cjuiet.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Challoner's 
health,  and — and — parties  are  not  always  desirable,"  he  went 
on,  floundering  a  little  in  his  speech,  and  signing  to  Mattie  to 
come  to  his  help,  wh'ch  she  did  at  once,  breathlessly: 

"  Parties!  Oh,  dear,  no!  They  are  such  a  trouble  and  ex- 
pense. But  tenuis  and  tea  on  the  lawn  is  just  nothing — noth- 
ing at  all.  One  can  give  a  little  fruit  and  some  home-made 
3ake.  No  one  need  scruple  at  that.  Archie  is  not  rich — 
3lergymen  never  are,  you  know — but  he  means  to  entertain 
liis  friends  as  well  as  he  can.  1  should  like  you  to  see  Miss 
Middleton.  She  is  a  charming  person.  And  the  colonel  is 
as  nice  as  possible.  We  will  just  ask  them  to  meet  you  in  a 
quiet  way,  and,  if  your  mother  is  not  too  much  of  an  invalid, 
I  hope  she  will  give  us  the  pleasure  of  her  company;  for  when 
people  are  such  close  neighbors  it  is  stupid  to  stand  on  cere- 
mony," finislied  Mattie,  bringing  herself  rapidly  to  a  full  stop. 

'.'  You  are  very  kind.  But  you  do  not  understand,"  re- 
turned Phillis.  And  then  she  stopped,  and  a  gleam  of  fun 
came  into  her  eyes.  Her  sharp  ears  had  caught  the  rattle  of 
cups  and  saucers.  Actually,  that  absurd  Dorothy  was  bring- 
ing in  tea  in  the  old  way,  making  believe  that  they  were  en- 
tertaining their  friends  in  Glen  Cottage  fashion!  She  must  get 
Dut  the  truth  somehow  before  the  pretty  purple  china  made  its 
appearance.  "  Oh,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sort  of  gulp,  as 
though  she  felt  the  sudden  touch  of  cold  water,  "  you  come 
iiere  meaning  kindly,  and  asking  us  to  your  house,  and  taking 
compassion  upon  us  because  we  are  strangers  and  lonely,  and 
70U  do  not  know  that  we  are  poor,  and  that  we  have  lost  our 
money,  and — "  But  here  Mr.  Drummond  was  absolutely 
rude  enough  to  interrupt  her. 

"  What  does  that  matter,  my  dear  MissChalloner?  Do  you 
think  that  is  of  any  consequence  in  mine  or  my  sister's  eyes? 
i  suppose  if  1  be  your  clergyman — "  And  then  he  stopped 
and  stroked  his  beard  in  an  embarrassed  way;  for  though 
Phillis's  face  was  pale,  there  was  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  if  this  be  a  parochial  visit,"  she  began,  demurely; 
•'  but  you  should  not  have  talked  of  tennis,  Mr.  Drummond. 
How  do  you  know  we  are  not  Roman  Catholics  or  Wesleyans,. 


"SOT    LlfeE    OTHER    atRLS.  l4§ 

or  even  Baptists  or  Bible  Christians?  We  might  have  gone 
to  your  church  out  of  curiosity  on  Sundaj',  or  to  see  the  fash- 
ions. There  is  not  a  Quaker  cut  about  us;  but,  still,  we 
might  be  Unitarians,  and  people  would  not  find  it  out,"  con- 
tinued Phillis,  looliing  with  much  solemnity  at  the  bewildered 
young  Anglican. 

The  situation  was  too  absurd;  there  was  no  knowing  to 
what  length  Phillis's  recklessness  and  sense  of  humor  would 
have  brought  her,  only  Nan's  good  sense  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Phillis  is  only  in  fun,  Mr.  Drummond.  Of  course  we  are 
church  people,  and  of  course  we  hope  to  attend  your  services. 
1  am  sure  my  mother  will  be  pleased  to  see  you,  when  you 
are  kind  enough  to  call.  At  Oldfield  we  were  always  good 
friends  with  our  clergyman;  he  was  such  a  dear  old  man." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  forbid  my  sister's  visits,  then?"  asked 
Archie,  Tooking  anxiously  at  her  sweet  face;  Nan  looked  so 
pretty,  in  spite  of  her  discomposure. 

*'  Oh,  no!  we  do  not  mean  to  be  so  rude;  do  we,  Phillis? 
We  should  be  glad  to  see  Miss  Drummond;  but— but,"  faltered 
Nan,  losing  breath  a  little,  "  we  have  been  unfortunate,  and 
must  work  for  our  living;  and  your  sister  perhaps  would  not 
care  to  visit  dress-makers." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Archie;  he  almost  jumped  out  of  his 
chair  in  surprise. 

Phillis  had  uttered  a  faint  "  Bravo,  Nan!"  but  no  one 
heard  her.  Dulce's  cheeks  were  crimson,  and  she  would  not 
look  at  any  one;  but  Nan,  who  had  got  out  the  dreaded  word, 
went  on  bravely,  and  was  well  hugged  by  Phillis  in  private 
afterward. 

"  We  are  not  clever  enough  for  governesses,"  continued 
Nan,  with  a  charming  smile,  addressing  Mattie,  who  sat  and 
stared  at  her,  "  and  there  was  nothing  we  dreaded  so  much  as 
to  separate;  so,  as  we  had  capable  fingers  and  were  fond  of 
work,  my  sister  Phillis  planned  this  for  us.  Now  you  see. 
Miss  Drummond,  why  we  could  not  accept  your  kind  hospi- 
tality. Whatever  we  have  been,  we  can  not  expect  people  to 
visit  us  now.  If  you  would  be  good  enough  to  recommend  us, 
and  help  us  in  our  efforts  to  make  ourselves  independent,  that 
is  all  we  can  ask  of  you." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mattie,  bluntly;  "  as  far 
as  1  am  concerned,  I  am  never  ashamed  of  any  honest  calling. 
What  do  you  say,  A.rchie?" 

"  I  say  it  is  all  very  proper  and  laudable,"  he  returned, 
hesitating;  "but  surely — surely  there  must  be  some  other 
way  more  suitable  for  ladies  in  your  position.     Let  me  call 


150  ifOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLl 

again  when  your  mother  comes,  and  see  if  there  is  nothing  that 
1  can  do  or  recommend  better  than  this.  Yes,  1  am  sure,  if  I 
can  only  talk  to  your  mother,  we  could  find  some  other  way 
than  this." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Drummond,  you  must  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  replied  Phillis,  in  an  alarmed  voice;  "  the  poor  dear 
mother  must  not  be  disturbed  by  any  such  talk!  You  mean 
it  kindly,  but  we  have  made  up  our  own  minds,  I^an  and  I;  we 
mean  to  do  without  the  world  and  live  in  one  of  our  own;  and 
we  mean  to  carry  out  our  plan  in  defiance  of  everything  and 
everybody;  and  though  you  are  our  clergyman,  and  we  are 
bound  to  listen  to  your  sermons,  we  can  not  take  your  advice 
in  this." 

"  But — but  I  would  willingly  act  as  a  friend,"  began  the 
young  man,  confusedly,  looking  not  at  her,  but  at  Nan. 

He  was  so  bewildered,  so  utterly  taken  aback,  he  hardly 
knew  what  he  said. 

"  Here  comes  Dorothy  with  the  tea,"  interrupted  Nan, 
pleasantly,  as  though  dismissing  the  subject;  "  she  has  not 
forgotten  our  old  customs.  Friends  always  came  around  us  in 
the  afternoon.  Mr.  Drummond,  perhaps  you  will  make  your- 
self useful  and  cut  the  cake.  Dorothy,  you  need  not  have  un- 
packed the  best  silver  tea-pot."  Nan  was  moving  about  in 
her  frank,  hospitable  way.  Laddie  was  whining  for  cake,  and 
breaking  into  short  barks  of  impatience.  "  This  is  one  of 
our  Glen  Cottage  cakes.  Susan  always  prides  herself  on  the 
recipe,"  said  Nan,  calmly,  as  she  pressed  it  on  her  guests. 

Mr.  Drummond  almost  envied  his  sister  as  she  praised  the 
cake  and  asked  for  the  recipe.  He  had  always  found  fault 
with  her  manners,  but  now  nothing  (iould  be  finer  than  her 
simplicity.  Pure  good  nature  and  innate  womanliness  were 
teaching  Mattie  something  better  than  tact.  Nan  had  dropped 
a  painful  subject,  and  she  would  not  revive  it  in  her  brother's 
presence.  There  would  be  2)lenty  of  time  for  her  to  call  and 
talk  it  over  with  tjiem  quietly.  Help  them — of  course  she 
would  help  them.  They  should  have  her  new  silk  dress  that 
Uncle  Conway  had  just  sent  her.  It  was  a  risk,  for  perhaps 
they  might  spoil  it;  but  such  fine  creatures  should  have  a 
chance.  At  present  she  would  only  enjoy  the  nice  tea,  and 
talk  to  poor  little  frightened  Dulce,  who  seemed  unable  to 
open  her  lips  after  her  sister's  disclosure. 

Archie  could  not  emulate  her  ease;  a  man  is  always  at  a  dis- 
advantage in  such  a  case.  His  interest  had  sustained  no  shock; 
it  was  even  stimulated  by  what  he  had  just  heard;  but  his 
sympathy  seemed  all  at  once  congealed,  and  he  could  find  no 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS.  l5X 

vent  for  it.  In  spite  of  his  best  efforts,  his  manner  grew  more 
and  more  constrained  every  moment. 

Nan  looked  at  him  more  than  once  with  reproachful  sweet- 
ness. She  thought  they  had  lost  caste  in  his  eyes;  but  Phil- 
lis,  who  was  shrewd  and  sharp-set  in  her  wits,  read  him  more 
truly.  She  knew — having  already  met  a  score  of  such — how 
addicted  young  Englishmen  are  to  mauvais  honte,  and  how 
they  will  hide  acute  sensibilities  under  blunt  and  stolid  ex- 
teriors; and  there  was  a  certain  softness  in  Mr.  Drummoiid's 
eye  that  belied  his  stiffness.  Most  likely  he  was  very  sorry 
for  them,  and  did  not  know  how  to  show  it;  and  in  this  she 
was  right. 

Mr.  Drummond  was  very  sorry  for  them,  but  he  was  still 
more  grieved  for  himself.  The  Oxford  fellow  had  not  long 
been  a  parish  priest,  and  he  could  not  at  all  understand  the 
position  in  which  he  found  himself — taking  tea  with  three  ele- 
gant young  dress-makers  who  talked  the  purest  English  and 
had  decided  views  on  tennis  and  horticulture.  He  had  just 
been  congratulating  himself  on  securing  such  companionship 
for  his  sister  and  himself.  Being  rather  classical-minded,  he 
had  been  calling  them  the  gray-eyed  Graces,  and  one  of  them 
at  least  "  a  daughter  of  the  gods — divinely  tall  and  most 
divinely  fair;"  for  where  had  he  seen  anything  to  compare 
with  Nan's  bloom  and  charming  figure?  Dress-makers! — oh, 
if  only  Grace  were  at  hand,  that  he  might  talk  to  her,  and 
gain  her  opinion  how  he  was  to  act  in  such  a  case!  Grace  had 
the  stiff-necked  Drummond  pride  as  well  as  he^  and  would 
hesitate  long  behind  the  barriers  of  conventionality.  No  won- 
der, with  all  these  thoughts  passing  through  his  mind,  that 
Nan,  with  her  bright  surface  talk,  found  him  a  little  vague. 

it  was  quite  a  relief  to  all  the  party  when  Mattie  gave  the 
signal  for  departure  and  the  bell  was  rung  for  Dorothy  to 
show  them  out. 

"  Well,  Nan,  what  do  you  think  of  our  visitors?"  asked 
Phillis,  when  the  garden  door  had  clanged  noisily  after  them, 
and  she  had  treated  Nan  to  the  aforesaid  hugs;  "  for  you  were 
80  brave,  darling,  and  actually  took  the  wind  out  of  my  sails!" 
exclaimed  the  enthusiastic  Phillis.  "  Miss  Drummond  is  not 
so  bad,  after  all,  is  she?  in  spite  of  her  dowdiness  and  fussy 
ways." 

"  No;  she  means  well,  and  so  does  her  brother.  He  is  very 
nice,  only  his  self-consciousness  spoils  him,"  returned  Nan, 
in  a  calm,  discursive  tone,  as  though  they  were  discussing 
ordniary  visitors. 

It  was  impossible  for  these  young  girls  tQ  see  that  thei?- 


153  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

ordinary  language  \vas  not  humble  enough  for  their  new  cir- 
cumstances. They  would  make  mistakes  at  every  turn,  like 
Dorothy,  who  got  out  the  best  china  and  brewed  her  tea  in 
the  melon-shaped  silver  tea-pot. 

Phillis  opened  her  eyes  rather  widely  at  this.  Nan  was  not 
often  so  observant.  It  was  true,  self-consciousness  was  a  tor- 
ment to  Archibald  Drummond;  a  Frankenstein  of  his  own 
creation,  that  had  grown  imperceptibly  with  his  growth  to  the 
full  measure  of  his  manhood,  as  inseparable  as  the  shadow 
from  the  substance.  Phillis  had  recognized  it  at  once;  but 
then,  as  she  said,  no  one  was  faultless;  and  then,  he  was  so 
handsome.  "  Very  handsome,"  chimed  in  Dulce,  whose 
opinions  were  full-fledged  on  such  matters. 

'Is  he?  Well,  I  never  cared  for  a  man  with  a  long  fair 
beard,"  observed  Nan,  carelessly.  Poor  Archie!  how  his 
vanity  would  have  suffered  if  he  had  heard  her!  for,  in  a  mas- 
culine way,  he  prided  himself  excessively  on  the  soft  silky  ap- 
pendage that  Grace  had  so  often  praised.  A  certain  boyish 
countenance,  with  kindly,  honest  eyes  and  a  little  sandy  mus- 
tache was  more  to  Nan's  taste  than  the  handsome  young  An- 
glican's. 

"Oh,  we  all  know  Nan's  opinion  in  such  matters,"  said. 
Dulce,  slyly;  and  then  Nan  blushed,  and  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  Dorothy  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  linen-closet,  and 
hurried  away,  leaving  her  sisters  to  discuss  their  visitors  to 
their  hearts'  content. 


CHAPTEK  XIX. 

ARCHIE   IS   IN   A   BAD   HUMOR. 

*'  Oh,  Archie,  I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my  life!'*  ex- 
claimed Mattie,  as  she  tried  to  adapt  her  uneven  trot  to  her 
brother's  long,  swinging  footsteps;  and  then  she  glanced  up 
in  his  face  to  read  his  mood;  but  Archie's  features  were  in- 
scrutable and  presented  an  appalling  blank.  In  his  mind  he 
was  beginning  his  letter  to  Grace,  and  wondering  what  he 
should  say  to  her  about  their  new  neighbors.  "  Writing  is 
such  a  nuisance  when  one  wants  to  talk  to  a  person,"  he 
thought,  irritably. 

"  Oh,  Archie,  won't  you  tell  me  what  we  are  to  do?"  went 
on  Matt"e,  excitedly.  She  would  not  take  Archie's  silence  as 
a  hint  that  he  wanted  to  keep  his  thoughts  tohimsidf.  "  Those 
poor  girls!  oh,  how  nice  and  pretty  they  all  are,  especially  the 
eldest;  and  is  not  the  youngest — Dulce,  I  think  they  called 
lier — the  very  image  of  Isubeir" 


•*  Isabel!  not  a  bit.  That  is  so  like  you,  Mattie.  You 
always  see  likenesses  when  other  people  cati  not  trace  the 
faintest  resemblance;"  for  this  remark  was  sure  to  draw  out 
his  opposition.  Isabel  was  a  silly,  flirting  little  thing  in  her 
brother's  estimation,  and,  he  thought,  could  not  hold  a  candle 
to  the  youngest  Miss  Challoner. 

"  Oh,  dear!  now  I  have  made  you  cross!"  sighed  poor  Mat- 
tie,  who  especially  wanted  to  keep  him  in  good  humor.  "  And 
yet  every  one  but  you  thinks  Isabel  so  pretty.  1  am  sure, 
from  what  Grace  said  in  her  last  letter,  that  Mr.  Ellis  Burton 
means  to  propose  to  her." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  will  all  consider  that  a  catch/'  sneered 
Archie.  "  That  is  so  like  a  parcel  of  women,  thinking  every 
man  who  comes  to  the  house  and  makes  a  few  smooth-tongued 
speeches— is,  in  fact,  civil — must  be  after  a  girl.  Of  course 
you  have  all  helped  to  instill  this  nonsense  into  the  child's 
head." 

"  Dear  me,  how  you  talk,  Archie!"  returned  Mattie,  feel- 
ing herself  snubbed,  as  usual.  Why,  Archie  had  been  quite 
excited  about  it  only  the  other  day,  and  had  said  quite  serious- 
ly that  with  seven  girls  in  a  family,  it  would  be  a  great  bless- 
ing if  Isabel  could  make  such  a  match;  for  it  was  very  unlike- 
ly that  Laura  and  Susie,  or  even  Clara,  would  do  much  for 
themselves  in  that  way,  unless  they  decidedly  improved  in 
looks. 

"  Well,  it  is  nothing  to  me,"  he  returned,  in  a  chilling 
manner;  "  we  all  know  our  own  mind  best.  If  an  angular, 
lantern-jawed  fellow  like  Burton,  who,  by  the  bye,  does  not 
speak  the  best  English,  is  to  Isabel's  taste,  let  her  have  him 
by  all  means;  he  is  well-to-do,  and  I  dare  say  will  keep  a  car- 
riage for  her  by  and  by;  that  is  what  you  women  think  a  great 
advantage,"  liiiished  Archie,  who  certainly  seemed  bent  on 
making  himself  disagreeable. 

Mattie  heaved  another  great  sigh,  but  she  did  not  dare  to 
contradict  him.  Grace  would  have  punished  him  on  the  spot 
by  a  dose  of  satire  that  would  have  brought  him  to  reason  and 
good  nature  in  a  moment;  but  Mattie  ventured  only  on  those 
laborious  sighs  which  she  jerked  up  from  the  bottom  of  her 
honest  little  heart. 

Archie  heard  the  sigh  and  felt  ashamed  of  his  bad  temper. 
He  did  not  know  himself  why  he  felt  so  suddenly  cross;  some 
secret  irritation  was  at  work  within  him,  and  he  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  bidding  Mattie  quite  roughly  to  hold  her  tongue 
and  not  tease  him  with  her  chatter.  If  she  expected  him  in 
his  present  state  of  mind,  which  was  at  once  contradictory  and 


15 i     '  NOT    LIIiE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

aggi-essive,  to  talk  to  her  about  the  Challoners.  she  must  just 
make  up  her  mind  to  be  disappoiuted,  for  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  speak  of  them  to  her  just  now;  he  wanted  to  hold 
counsel  with  his  own  thoughts  and  with  Grace.  He  would 
call  at  the  Friary  again  and  see  Mrs.  Challoner,  and  fiiid  out 
more  of  this  strange  matter;  but  as  to  talking  it  over  with 
Mattie,  he  quite  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  swung  open  the 
green  door. 

"  Are  you  going  in?"  faltered  Mattie,  as  she  noticed   this 

movement. 

"  Well,  yes;  I  have  letters  to  write,  and  it  is  far  too  hot  for 
a  longer  walk,"  he  returned,  decidedly;  and  then,  as  Mattie 
stood  hesitating  and  wistful  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  he 
strode  ot!,  leaving:  the  door  to  close  noisily  after  him,  and  not 
caring  to  inquire  into  her  further  movements,  such  being  the 
occasional  graceless  manners  of  brothers  when  sisterly  friend- 
ship is  not  to  their  liking. 

Mattie  felt  snubbed;  but,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she 
did  not  take  her  snubbing  meekly.  It  was  too  much  to  expect 
of  her,  who  was  only  a  woman  and  not  one  of  Archie's  divini- 
ties, that  she  should  follow  him  "into  the  house  and  hold  her 
tongue  just  because  he  was  pleased  to  refrain  from  speaking. 
Water  must  find  its  vent,  and  Matfcie's  tongue  could  not  be 
silenced  in  this  way.  If  Archie  would  not  talk  to  her.  Miss 
Middleton  would;  so  at  once  she'  trotted  off  for  Brooklyn, 
thereby  incurring  Archie's  wrath  if  he  could  only  have  known 
her  purpose;  for  gossip  was  to  him  as  the  sin  of  witchcraft, 
unless  he  stooped  to  it  himself,  and  then  it  was  amiable  socia- 
bility. 

Miss  Middleton  was  listening  to  her  father's  reading  as 
usual,  but  she  welcomed  Mattie  with  open  arms,  literally  as 
well  as  metaphorically,  for  she  kissed  Mattie  on  either  cheek, 
and  then  scolded  her  tenderly  for  looking  so  flushed  and  tired; 
"  for  somebody  who  is  always  looking  after  other  people,  and 
never  has  time  to  spare  for  herself,  is  growing  quite  thin;  is 
she  not,  father?  and  we  must  write  to  Grace  if  this  goes  on," 
finished  Miss  Middleton,  with  one  of  her  kind  looks. 

All  this  was  cordial  to  poor  Mattie,  who,  though  she  was 
used  to  snubbing,  and  took  as  kindly  to  it  as  a  spaniel  to  water, 
yet  felt  herself  growing  rather  like  a  thread-paper  and  shabby 
with  every-day  worries  and  never  an  encouraging  word  to  in- 
spirit her. 

So  she  gave  Elizabeth  a  misty  little  smile— Mattie's  smile 
was  pretty,  though  her  features  were  ordinary — and  then  sat 
np  straight  and  began  to  enjoy  herself — that  is,  to  talk — never 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEB    GIRLS.  155 

noticing  that  Colonel  Midflleton  looked  at  his  paper  in  a  crest- 
fallen manner,  not  much  liking  the  interruj)tion  and  the  cessa- 
tion of  his  own  voice. 

"  Oh,  dear!"  began  Mattie;  she  generally  prefaced  her  re= 
mark  by  an  "Oh,  dear!"  ("That  was  one  of  her  jerky 
ways,"  as  Archie  said.)  "  1  could  not  help  coming  straight 
to  you,  for  Archie  would  not  talk,  and  I  felt  I  must  tell  some- 
body. Oh,  dear.  Miss  Middletou!  What  do  you  think?  We 
have  just  called  at  the  Friary— and — "  but  here  Colonel  Mid- 
dletou's  countenance  relaxed,  and  he  dropped  his  paper. 

"  Those  young  ladies,  eh?  Come,  Elizabeth,  this  is  inter- 
esting. W'ell,  what  sort  of  place  is  the  Friary,  seen  from  the 
inside,  eh.  Miss  Drummond?" 

"Oh,  it  is  very  nice,"  returned  Mattie,  enthusiastically. 
"  We  were  shown  into  such  a  pretty  room,  looking  out  on  the 
garden.  They  have  so  many  nice  things— pictures  and  old 
china  and  handsomely  bound  books,  and  all  arranged  so  taste- 
fully. And  before  we  went  away,  the  old  servant — she  seems 
really  quite  a  superior  person— brought  in  an  elegant  little 
tea-tray;  the  cups  and  saucers  were  handsomer  even  than 
yours,-  Miss  Middleton— dark  purple  and  gold.  Just  what  I 
admire  so — " 

"Ah,  reduced  in  circumstances!  I  told  you  so,  Eliza- 
beth," ejaculated  the  colonel. 

"  I  never  saw  Archie  enjoy  himself  so  much  or  seem  so 
thoroughly  at  home  anywhere.  Somewhere,  the  girls  put  us 
so  at  our  ease.  Though  they  were  hanging  up  curtains  when 
we  went  in— and  any  one  else  would  have  been  annoyed  at 
our  intruding  so  soon— actually  before  we  were  in  the  room  a 
moment,  Archie  was  on  the  steps,  helping  the  eldest  Miss 
Challoner  fasten  the  hooks." 

Miss  Middleton  exchanged  an  amused  look  with  her  father. 
Mattie's  narrative  was  decidedly  interesting. 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  him  I  repeated  that,  for  he  is  always  call- 
ing me  chatter-box!"  implored  Mattie,  who  feared  she  had 
been  indiscreet,  and  that  the  colonel  was  not  to  be  trusted, 
which  was  quite  true  as  far  as  jokes  were  concerned.  No  one 
understood  the  art  of  teasing  better  than  he,  and  the  young 
vicar  had  already  had  a  taste  of  his  kindly  satire.  "  Archie 
only  meant  to  be  good-natured  and  put  every  one  at  their 
ease. " 

"  Quite  right.  Mr.  Drummond  is  alwa3's  kind,"  returned 
Elizabeth,  benignly.  She  had  forgotten  Mattie's  frequent 
scoldings,  and  the  poor  little  thing's  tired  face,  or  she  would 
never  have  hazarded  such  a  compromise  with  truth.     But 


156  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

somehotv  Elizabeth  alwa3's  forgot  people's  weaknesses,  espe- 
cially when  they  were  absent.  It  was  so  nice  and  easy  to 
praise  people;  and  if  she  always  believed  what  she  said,  that 
was  because  her  faith  was  so  strong,  and  charity  that  is  love 
was  her  second  nature. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  returned  Mattie,  innocently.  She 
was  far  too  loyal  a  little  soul  to  doubt  Archie's  kindness  for  a 
moment.  Was  he  not  the  pride  and  ornament  of  the  family, 
the  domestic  pope  who  issued  his  bulls  without  possibility  of 
contradiction?  Whatever  Archie  did  must  be  right.  Was  not 
that  their  domestic  creed? — a  little  slavish,  perhaps,  but  still 
so  exquisitely  feminine.  Mattie  was  of  opinion  that — well,  to 
use  a  mild  terra — irritability  was  a  necessary  adjunct  of  man- 
hood. All  men  were  cross  sometimes.  It  behooved  their 
womaukiud,  then,  to  throw  oil  on  the  troubled  waters — to 
speak  peaceably,  and  to  refrain  from  sour  looks,  or  even  the 
shadow  of  a  frown.  Archie  was  never  cross  with  Grace;  there- 
fore" it  must  be  she,  Mattie,  on  whom  the  blame  lay;  she  was 
such  a  silly  little  thing.  And  so  on.  There  is  no  need  to 
follow  the  self-accusation  of  one  of  the  kindest  hearts  that 
ever  beat. 

"  Did  not  your  visit  end  as  pleasantly  as  it  began?"  asked 
Elizabeth,  who,  though  she  was  overmerciful  in  her  judg- 
ments, was  not  without  a  good  deal  of  sagacity  and  shrewd- 
ness. Something  lay  beyond  the  margin  of  Mattie's  words, 
she  could  see  that  plainly;  and  then  her  father  was  getting 
impatient. 

"  Well,  you  see,  that  spoiled  everything,"  returned  Mattie, 
jumbling  her  narrative  in  the  oddest  manner.  "  Archie  was 
so  sorry,  and  so  v/as  I;  and  he  got  quite — you  know  his  way 
when  he  feels  uncomfortable.  1  thought  Miss  Challoner  was 
joking  at  first — that  it  was  just  a  bit  of  make-believe  fun — 
until  1  saw  how  grave  Miss  Phillis,  that  is  the  second  one, 
looked;  and  then  the  little  one — at  least,  she  is  not  little,  but 
somehow  one  fancies  she  is — seemed  as  though  £he  were  going 
to  cry." 

"  But  what  did  Miss  Challoner  say  to  distress  you  and  Mr. 
Drummond  so?"  asked  Elizabeth,  trying  patiently  to  elicit 
facts  and  not  vague  statements  from  Mattie. 

"  Oh,  she  said — no,  please  don't  think  I  am  exaggerating, 
for  it  is  all  true — that  they  had  lost  their  money,  and  were 
very  poor,  and  that  she  and  her  sisters  were  dress-makers." 

"  iJress-makers!"  shouted  the  colonel,  and  his  ruddy  face 
grew  almost  purple  with  the  shock;  his  very  muetache  seemed 
%9  bristle, 


NOT    LIKE    OTEER    GIRLS.  151? 

*'  Dress-makers!  my  dear  Miss  Drummond,  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it.  Tliose  girls!  It  is  a  hoax! — a  bit  of  nouseiise 
from  beginning  to  end!" 

"Hush,  father!  you  are  putting  Mattie  out/'  returned 
Elizabeth,  mildly.  It  was  one  of  her  idiosyncrasies  to  call 
people  as  soon  as  possible  by  their  Christian  names,  thougli  no 
one  but  her  father  and  brother  ever  called  her  Elizabeth.  Per- 
haps her  gray  haif  and  a  certain  soft  dignity  that  belonged  to 
her  forbade  such  freedom.  "  Dear  father,  we  must  let  Mat- 
tie  speak."  But  even  Elizabeth  let  her  work  lie  unheeded  in 
her  lap  in  the  engross-ing  interest  of  the  subject. 

"  I  do  not  mean  they  have  been  dress-makers  all  this  time, 
but  this  is  their  plan  for  the  future.  Miss  Challoner  said  they 
were  not  clever  enough  for  governesses,  and  that  they  did  not 
want  to  separate.  But  that  is  what. they  mean  to  do— to 
make  dresses  for  people  who  are  not  half  so  good  as  them- 
selves.*' 

"Preposterous!  absurd!"  groaned  the  colonel.  "Where 
is  their  mother?  What  can  the  old  lady  be  thinking  about?" 
Mrs.  Challoner  was  not  an  old  lady  by  any  means;  but  tben 
the  choleric  colonel  had  never  seen  her,  or  he  would  not  have 
applied  that  term  to  the  aristocratic-looting  gentlewoman 
whom  Mattie  had  admired  in  Miss  Milner's  shoj). 


i  i 


I  had  a  good  look  round  the  room  afterward,"  went  on 
Mattie,  letting  this  pass.  "They  had  got  a  great  carved 
wardrobe— 1  thought  that  funny  in  a  sitting-room:  but,  of 
course,  it  was  for  the  dresses  " — another  groan  from  the  colonel 
— "  and  there  was  a  sewing-machine,  and  a  rosewood  daven- 
port for  accounts,  and  a  chiSonier,  of  cour&e,  for  the  pieces. 
Oh,  they  mean  business;  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  they 
understand  their  work  well,"  went  on  Mattie,  warming  up  to 
her  subject,  and  thinking  of  the  breadths  of  green  silk  that 
reposed  so  snugly  between  silver  paper  in  her  dra(\'ers  at  the 
vicarage— the  first  silk  dress  she  had  ever  owned,  for  the 
Drummond  finances  did  not  allow  of  such  luxuries— the  new 
color,  too;  such  a  soft,  invisible,  shadowy  green,  like  an  au- 
tumn leaf  shriveled  by  the  sun's  richness.  "  Oh,  if  they  should 
spoil  it!"  thought  Mattie,  with  a  sigh,  as  the  magnitude  of 
her  intended  sacrifice  weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind. 

"  It  is  sheer  girlish  nonsense~I  raiglit  say  foolery;  and  the 
mother  must  be  a  perfect  idiot!"  began  the  colonel,  angrily. 

He  was  an  excitable  man,  and  his  wrath  at  the  intelligence 
was  really  very  great.  He  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  new- 
comers, and  was  prepared  to  welcome  them  heartily  in  his 
genial  wayj  but  now  his  old-fashioned  prejudices  were  gney= 


158  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

ously  wouuded.  Ifc  was  against  his  nice  code  of  honor  that 
women  should  do  anything  out  of  the  usual  beaten  groove;  in- 
iioi'ations  that  would  make  them  conspicuous  were  heinous 
riins  in  his  eyes. 

"  Come,  Mattie,  you  and  1  will  have  a  chat  about  this  by 
ourselves,"  observed  Elizabeth,  cheerfully,  as  she  noticed  her 
father's  vexation.  He  would  soon  cool  down  if  left  to  himself; 
she  knew  that  well.  "  Suppose  we  go  down  to  Miss  Mihier, 
and  hear  what  she  has  to  say;  you  may  dej)end  upon  it  that  it 
was  this  that  made  her  so  reserved  with  us  the  other  day." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  exclaimed  Mattie;  but  she  was 
charmed  at  the  idea  of  fresh  gossip.  And  then  they  set  off 
together. 

Miss  Milner  seemed  a  little  surprised  to  see  them  so  soon, 
for  Mattie  had  already  paid  her  a  visit  that  day;  but  at  Miss 
Middleton's  first  words  a  look  of  annoyance  passed  over  her 
good-natured  face. 

"  Dear,  dear!  to  think  of  that  leaking  out  already,"  she 
said,  in  a  vexed  voice;  "  and  I  have  hot  spoken  to  a  soul,  be- 
cause the  young  ladies  asked  me  to  keep  their  secret  a  few 
days  longer.  '  You  must  give  us  till  next  Monday,'  one  of 
them  said  this  very  morning;  '  by  that  time  we  shall  be  in 
order,  and  then  we  can  set  to  work.'  " 

"It  was  Miss  Challoner  who  told  me  herself,"  observed 
Mattie,  in  a  deprecating  manner.  "  My  brother  and  1  called 
this  afternoon.  You  see,  being  the  clergyman,  and  such  close 
neighbors,  he  thought  we  might  be  of  some  use  to  the  poor 
things." 

"Poor  things  indeed!"  ejaculated  Miss  Milner.  "lean 
not  tell  you  how  bad  I  felt,"  she  went  on,  her  little  gray  curls 
bobbing  over  her  high  cheek-bones  with  every  word,  "  when 
that  dear  young  lady  put  down  her  head  there  " — pointing 
to  a  spot  about  as  big  as  a  half-crown  on  the  wooden  counter 
— "  and  cried  like  a  baby.  '  Oh,  how  silly  1  am!'  she  said, 
sobbing  like;  'and  what  would  my  sisters  say  to  me?  But 
you  are  so  kind.  Miss  Milner;  and  it  does  seem  all  so  strange 
and  horrid.'  I  made  up  my  mind  then  and  there,"  finished 
the  good  woman,  solemnly,  "  that  1  would  help  them  to  the 
best  of  my  power.  1  have  got  their  bits  of  advertisements  to 
put  about  the  shop;  and  there's  my  new  black  silk  dress,  that 
has  lain  by  since  Christmas,  because  I  knew  Miss  Slasher  would 
spoil  it;  not  but  what  they  may  ruin  it  finely  for  me;  but  I 
mean  to  shut  my  eyes  and  take  the  risk,"  with  a  little  smile 
of  satisfaction  over  her  own  magnanimity. 

Elizabeth  stretclied  out  her  hand  acruivS  the  couutor. 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  16d 

*'  Miss  Miluer,  you  are  a  good  creature,"  she  said,  softly. 
*'  I  honor  you  for  this.  If  people  always  helped  each  other, 
and  thought  so  little  of  a  sacrifice,  the  world  would  be  a  hap- 
pier place."  And  then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply  from  the 
gratified  shopwoman,  she  went  out  of  the  hbrary  with  a 
thoughtful  brow. 

"  Miss  Milner  has  read  me  a  lesson,"  she  said,  by  and  by, 
when  Mattie  had  marveled  at  her  silence  a  little.  "  Conven- 
tionality makes  cowards  of  the  best  of  us.  I  am  not  particu- 
larly worldly  minded,"  she  went  on,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  but 
all  the  same  I  must  plead  guilty  to  feeling  a  little  shocked  my- 
self at  your  news;  but  when  1  have  thought  a  little  more  about 
it,  I  dare  say  I  shall  see  things  by  a  truer  light,  and  be  as 
ready  to  admire  these  girls  as  1  am  now  to  wonder  at  them." 
And  after  this  she  bade  Mattie  a  kindly  good-bye. 

Meanwhile,  Phillis  was  bracing  herself  to  undergo  another 
ordeal.  Mr.  Drummond  and  his  sister  bad  only  just  left  the 
cottage  when  a  footman  from  the  White  House  brought  a  note 
for  her.  It  was  from  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and  was  worded  in  a  most 
friendly  manner. 

She  thanked  the  sisters  gracefully  for  their  timely  help  on 
the  previous  evening,  and,  though  making  light  of  her  acci- 
dent, owned  that  it  would  keep  her  a  prisoner  to  her  sofa  for 
a  few  days;  and  then  she  begged  them  to  waive  ceremony  and 
come  to  her  for  an  hour  or  two  that  evening. 

"  I  will  not  ask  you  to  dinner,  because  that  will  perhaps  in- 
convenience you,  as  you  must  be  tired  or  busy,"  she  wrote; 
"  but  if  one  or  both  of  you  would  just  put  on  your  hats  and 
walk  np  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  to  keep  Miss  Mewlstone  and 
myself  company,  it  would  be  a  real  boon  to  us  both."  And 
then  she  signed  herself  "  Magdalene  Cheyne." 

Phillis  wore  a  perplexed  look  on  her  face  as  she  took  the 
note  to  Nan,  who  was  still  in  the  linen  closet. 

"Very  kind,  very  friendly,"  commented  Nan,  when  she 
had  finished  reading  it;  "  but  I  could  not  possibly  go,  Phil. 
As  soon  as  1  have  done  this  I  have  promised  to  sit  with  moth- 
er. She  has  been  alone  all  day.  You  could  easily  send  an 
excuse,  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  must  know  we  are  busy." 

"  1  don't  feel  as  though  an  excuse  will  help  us  here,"  re- 
turned Phillis,  slowly.  "  When  an  unpleasant  thing  has  to  be 
done,  it  is  as  well  to  get  it  over;  thinking  about  it  only  hin- 
ders one's  sleep.'* 

"  But  you  will  surely  not  go  alone?"  demanded  Nan,  in 
astonishment.    "  You  are  so  tired,  Phil;  you  have  been  work- 


160  I^OT  tiki;  oMiiii  GiiiLS. 

iug  hard  all  day.  Give  it  up,  deai%  and  sit  and  rest  in  the 
garden  a  little/' 

"  Oh,  no,"  returned  Phillis,  disconsolately.  "  1  value  my 
night's  rest  too  much  to  imperil  it  so  lightly;  besides,  I  owe 
it  to  myself  for  a  penance  for  being  such  a  coward  this  after- 
noon." And  then,  without  waiting  for  any  further  dissuasion, 
she  carried  off  the  letter  and  wrote  a  very  civil  but  vague  re- 
ply, promising  to  walk  up  in  the  evening  and  inquire  after 
the  invalid;  and  then  she  dismissed  the  messenger,  and  went 
up  to  her  room  with  a  heavy  heart. 

Dulce  came  to  help  her,  like  a  dutiful  sister,  and  chattered 
on  without  intermission. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  put  on  your  best  dress?"  she  asked,  as 
she  dived  down  into  the  recesses  of  a  big  box. 

Phillis,  who  was  sitting  wearily  on  the  edge  of  her  bed, 
roused  up  at  this: 

"  My  best  blue  silk  and  cashmere,  that  we  wore  last  at  Fitz- 
roy  Lodge?  Dulce,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd?  Anything 
will  do— the  gray  stuff  or  the  old  foulard.  No,  stop;  1  for- 
got; the  gray  dress  is  better  made  and  newer  in  cut.  We 
must  think  of  that.  Oh,  what  a  worry  it  is  going  out  when 
one  is  tired  to  death!"  she  continued,  with  unusual  irritation. 

Dulce  respected  her  sister's  mood  and  held  her  peace, 
though  she  knew  the  gray  dress  was  the  least  becoming  to 
Phillis,  who  was  pale,  and  wanted  a  little  color  to  give  her 
brightness. 

"  There,  now,  you  look  quite  nice,"  she  said,  in  a  patroniz- 
ing voice,  as  Phdlis  put  on  her  hat  and  took  her  gloves. 
Phillis  nodded  her  thanks  rather  sadly,  and  then  bethought 
herself  and  came  back  and  kissed  her. 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Dulce;  I  am  not  nearly  so  tired  now; 
but  it  is  getting  late,  and  1  must  run  off."  And  so  she  did 
until  she  had  turned  the  corner,  and  then,  in  spite  of  herself, 
her  steps  became  slower  and  more  lagging. 


CHAPTER  XX.  ^ 

"  YOU   ARE    llOMAKTIC.'^ 

HuMAK  nature  is  prone  to  argument;  a  person  will  often  in 
the  course  of  a  few  moments  bring  himself  or  herself  to  the 
bar  of  conscience,  and  aocuse,  excuse,  and  sum  up  the  case  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

On  arriving  at  the  lodge  gates  Phillis  began  to  take  herself 
to  task.  Conscience,  that  "  makes  cowards  of  us  all,"  began 
its  small  inner  remonstrance;  then  followed  tielf-fiagellatiou 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  161 

and  much  belaboring  of  herself  with  many  remorseful  terms. 
She  was  a  pitiful  thing  compared  to  Nan;  she  was  conven- 
tional; there  were  no  limits  to  her  pride.  Where  were  that 
freedom  and  nobility  of  soul  which  she  once  fancied  would 
sweep  over  worldly  prejudices,  and  carry  her  into  purer  air? 
She  was  still  choking  in  the  fogs  of  mere  earthly  exhalations. 
No  wonder  Nan  was  a  little  disappointed  in  her,  though  she 
was  far  too  kind  to  say  so.  Well,  she  was  disappointed  in 
herself. 

By  this  time  she  had  reached  the  hall  door;  and  now  she  be- 
gan to  hold  up  her  head  more  boldly,  and  to  look  about  her. 
vVhen  a  very  solemn-looking  butler  confronted  her  she  said  to 
herself,  "  It  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence,  and  I 
am  determined  this  time  not  to  be  beaten;"  and  then  she 
asked  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  with  something  of  her  old  spright- 
liness,  and  nothing  could  exceed  the  graceful  ease  of  her  en- 
trance. 

All  the  Challoners  walked  well.  There  was  a  purity  of 
health  about  them  that  made  them  delight  in  movement  and 
every  bodily  exercise — an  elasticity  of  gait  that  somehow  at- 
tracted attention. 

No  girls  danced  better  than  they.  And  when  they  had  the 
chance,  which  was  seldom,  they  could  ride  splendidly.  Their 
skating  was  a  joy  to  see,  and  made  one  wish  that  the  ice  would 
last  forever,  that  one  could  watch  such  light,  skimming  prac- 
tice; and  as  for  tennis,  no  other  girl  had  a  chance  of  being 
chosen  for  a  partner  unless  the  Challoners  good-naturedly  held 
aloof,  which  ten  times  out  of  twelve  they  were  sure  to  do. 

Phillis,  who,  from  her  pale  complexion,  was  supposed  to 
possess  the  least  vitality,  delighted  in  exercise  for  its  own 
sake.  "  It  is  a  pleasure  only  to  be  alive  and  to  know  it,^' 
was  a  favorite  speech  with  her  on  summer  mornings,  when 
the  shadows  were  blowing  lightly  hither  and  thither,  and  the 
birds  had  so  much  to  say  that  it  took  them  until  evening  to 
finish  saying  it. 

Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  was  lying  on  her  couch,  watched  with 
admiring  eyes  the  girl's  straightforward  walk,  so  alert  and 
business-like,  so  free  from  fuss  and  consciousness,  and  held 
out  her  hand  with  a  more  cordial  welcome  than  she  was  ac- 
customed to  show  her  visitors. 

It  was  a  long  room;  and  as  the  summer  dusk  was  falling, 
and  there  was  only  a  shaded  lamp  beside  Mrs.  Cheyne,  it  was 
full  of  dim  corners.  Nevertheless,  Phillis  piloted  herself  with- 
out hesitation  to  the  illuminated  circle. 

This  is  good  of  you^  Miss  Challouer,  to  take  me  at  m/ 


((  rri 


102  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELB. 

\V£>rcl.  But  whei-e  is  your  sister?  I  wanted  to  look  at  her 
again,  for  it  is  long  since  I  have  seen  any  one  so  pretty.  Miss 
Mewlstone,  this  is  the  good  Samaritan  who  bound  up  my  foot 
so  cleverly. '^ 

"  Ah,  just  so,"  returned  Miss  Mewlstone;  and  a  soft, 
plump  hand  touched  Phillis's,  and  then  she  went  on  picking 
up  stitches  and  taking  no  further  notice. 

"Nan  could  not  come,"  observed  Phillis.  "She  had  to 
run  down  to  Beach  House  to  report  progress  to  mother.  "We 
hop©  she  is  coming  home  to-morrow.  But  as  you  were  so 
kind  as  to  wiite,  I  thought  I  would  just  call  and  inquire  about 
your  foot.  And  then  it  would  be  easier  to  explain  things  than 
to  write  about  them. " 

"Oh!  so  your  mother  is  coming  home!"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  with  so  much  interest  in  her  voice  that  Miss  Mewl- 
stone left  off  counting  to  look  at  her.  ("  Just  so,  just  so," 
Phillis  heard  her  mutter.)  "  You  must  have  worked  hard  to 
get  readj  for  her  so  soon.  When  my  foot  will  allow  me  to 
cross  a  room  without  hobbling,  1  will  do  myself  the  pleasure 
of  calling  on  her.  But  that  will  be  neither  this  week  nor  the 
next,  1  am  afraid.  But  I  shall  see  a  good  deal  of  you  and 
your  sister  before  then,"  she  concluded,  with  the  graciousness 
of  one  who  knows  she  is  conferring  an  unusual  honor. 

"  1  do  not  know,"  faltered  Phillis.  And  then  she  sat  up- 
right and  looked  her  hostess  full  in  the  face.  "  That  will  be 
for  you  to  decide  when  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  But  I 
fear  " — with  a  very  poor  attempt  at  a  smile — "  that  we  shall 
see  very  little  of  each  other  in  the  future." 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  mystery,  is  there?"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
with  a  little  scorn  in  her  manner;  and  her  mouth  took  one  of 
the  downward  curves  that  Mr.  Drummond  so  thoroughly  dis- 
liked. She  had  taken  an  odd  fancy  to  these  girls,  especially 
to  Phillis,  and  had  thought  about  them  a  good  deal  during  a 
sleepless,  uneasy  night.  Their  simplicity,  their  straightfor- 
ward unconsciousness,  had  attracted  her  in  spite  of  her  cyni- 
cism. But  at  the  first  suspicion  of  mystery  she  withdrew  into 
herself  rather  haughtily.  *'  Do  speak  out,  1  beg.  Miss  Chal- 
loner;  for  if  there  be  one  thing  that  makes  me  impatient  it  is 
to  have  anything  implied." 

*'  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,"  replied  Phillis,  with  equal 
hausfhtiness,  only  it  sat  more  strangely  ^)n  her  girlishness. 
"  That  is  why  I  am  here  to-night — just  to  inquire  after  your 
foot  and  explain  things." 

"  Well?"  still  more  impatiently,  for  this  woman  was  a 
spoiled  child,  and  hated  to  be  thwarted,  and  was  undisciplined 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  163 

and  imperious  enough  to  ruin  all  her  own  chances  of  happi- 
ness. 

"  I  told  you  that  we  were  very  poor/*  went  on  Phillis,  in  A 
sweet  and  steady  voice;  "  but  that  did  not  seem  to  impress 
you  much,  and  1  thought  how  noble  that  was  " — catching  her 
breath  an  instant;  "  but  it  will  make  a  difference  and  shook 
you  dreadfully,  as  it  did  Mr.  Drummond,  when  I  tell  you  we 
are  dress-makers — Nan  and  Dulce  and  1;  at  least,  that  will  be 
our  future  occupation.'' 

*'  Ah,  just  so!''  ejaculated  Miss  Mewlstone;  but  she  said  it 
with  her  lips  far  apart.,  and  a  mistiness  came  into  her  sleepy 
blue  eyes.  Perhaps,  though  she  was  stout  and  middle-aged 
and  Dreathed  a  liLLle  too  heavily  at  times,  she  remembered — 
lot)g  ago  when  she  was  young  and  poor  and  had  to  wage  a 
bitter  war  with  the  world — when  she  eat  the  dry  bread  and 
drank  the  bitter  water  of  dependence,  and  felt  herself  ill  nour- 
ished by  such  unpalatable  sustenance.  "  Oh,  just  so,  poor 
thing!"  And  a  little  round  tear  dripped  on  to  the  ball  of 
scarlet  fleecy  wool. 

But  Mrs.  Cheyne  listened  to  the  announcement  in  far  differ- 
ent mood.  There  was  an  incredulous  stare  at  Phillis,  as 
though  she  suspected  her  of  a  joke;  and  then  she  laughed,  a 
dry,  harsh  laugh,  that  was  not  quite  pleasant  to  hear. 

"  Oh,  this  is  droll,  passing  droll!"  she  said,  and  leaned  back 
on  her  cushions,  and  drew  her  Indian  cashmere  shawl  round 
her,  and  frowned  a  little. 

"  I  am  glad  you  find  it  so,"  returned  Phillis,  who  was  non- 
plused at  this,  and  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  was  a  little 
angry  in  consequence;  and  then  she  got  up  from  her  chair 
with  a  demonstration  of  spirit.  "  I  am  glad  you  find  it  so; 
but  to  us  it  is  sad  earnestness." 

"  What!  are  you  going?"  asked  Mrs.  Cbeyne,  with  a  keen 
glance  through  her  half-shut  eyes  at  poor  Phillis  standing  so 
tall  and  straight  before  her.  "  And  you  have  not  told  me  the 
reason  for  taking  so  strange  a  step!" 

"  The  reason  lies  in  our  poverty  and  paucity  of  resources," 
was  Phillis's  curt  reply. 

"  It  is  not  to  make  a  sensation,  then?  No,  I  did  not  mean 
that,"  as  Phillis  shot  an  indignant  glance  at.  her — "  not  ex- 
actly; but  there  is  no  knowing  what  the  emaf^cipated  girl  will 
do.  Of  course  1  have  no  right  to  question,  who  was  a  stranger 
to  you  four-and-twenty  hours  ago,  and  had  never  heard  the 
name  of  Challoner,  except  that  it  was  a  good  And  an  old  name; 
but  when  one  sees  young  things  like  you  about  to  forfeit  caste 
and  build  up  a  barrier  between  yourselves  and  your  equals 


164:  KOT    LIKE    OTHEll    GTRti. 

that  the  bravest  will  fear  to  pass,  it  seems  as  though  one  must 
lift  up  one's  voice  in  protest. '^ 

"  Thank  you;  but  it  will  be  of  no  use,'*  returned  Phillis, 
colrlly. 

"  You  are  determined  to  make  other  people's  dresses?'* 
And  here  her  lip  curled  a  little,  perhaps  involuntarily. 

"  We  must  make  dresses  or  starve;  for  our  fingers  are  clev- 
erer than  our  brains,"  replied  Phillis,  defiantly;  for  the  knew 
nothing  about  it,  and  her  powers  were  so  immature  and 
unfledged  that  she  had  never  tried  her  wings,  anil  had  no  notion 
whether  she  could  fly  or  not,  and  yet  no  girl  had  a  clearer 
head.  "  VV"e  have  chosen  work  that  we  know  we  can  do  well, 
and  we  mean  not  to  be  ashamed  of  our  occupation.  In  the 
old  days  laJies  used  to  spin  and  weave,  aud  no  one  blamed 
them,  though  they  were  noble;  and  if  my  work  will  bring 
me  money,  and  keep  the  mother  comfortable,  I  see  nothing 
that  will  prevent  my  doing  it." 

"  Ah,  you  are  romantic.  Miss  Challoner;  you  will  soon  be 
taught  matter-of-facti" 

"  1  am  willing  to  learn  anything,  but  I  must  choose  my 
teachers,"  retorted  Phillis,  with  a  little  heat,  for  the  word 
"romantic"  and  the  satirical  droop  of  Mrs.  Oheyne's  lips 
made  her  decidedly  cross.  "  But  I  must  not  detain  you  any 
more  with  our  uninteresting  affairs,"  dropping  a  little  court- 
esy, half  in  pique  and  half  in  mockery,  for  her  spirits  were  ris- 
ing under  this  rough  treatment. 

"  It  is  far  from  uninteresting;  I  have  not  heard  anything 
so  exciting  for  a  long  time.  Well,  perhaps  you  had  better  go 
before  I  say  anything  very  rude,  for  1  am  teriibly  outspoken, 
and  I  think  you  are  all  silly,  self-willed  young  2>«opie." 
Then,  as  Phillis  bridled  her  neck  like  an  untamed  colt,  she 
caught  hold  of  the  girl's  dress  to  detain  her,  and  the  sharpness 
passed  out  of  her  eyes.  "  Now,  don't  go  away  and  believe 
that  I  think  any  worse  of  you  for  telling  me  this.  I  am  a 
cross-grained  body,  and  contradiction  makes  me  worse.  1 
don't  know  how  I  shall  act:  1  must  have  time  to  consider  thU 
extraordinary  bit  of  news.  But  all  the  same,  whatever  I  do, 
whether  I  know  you  or  do  not  know  you,  I  shall  always  think 
you  the  very  bravest  girl  I  ever  saw."  And  then  ^he  h-t  jjer 
go,  and  Phillis,  with  her  head  in  the  air  and  her  thoughts  all 
topsy-turvy,  marched  out  of  the  room. 

But  when  she  reached  the  end  of  the  corridor  there  was  a 
soft  but  distinctly  audible  breathing  behind  her,  and,  as  in 
Mr.  Urummond's  case.  Miss  Mewlstoue's  shadowy  gray  gown 
swept  between  her  aud  the  door. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  165 

"  Miss  Mevvlstone,  how  you  startled  me!  but  the  carpets 
are  so  soft  and  thick!" 

"Yes,  indeed!  just  so,  my  dear;  but  Phillips  must  be 
asleep,  as  he  does  not  answer  the  bell,  and  so  1  thought  I 
would  let  you  out.  You  are  young  to  walk  alone.  Shall  I  throw 
a  shawl  over  my  cap,  and  walk  down  the  road  with  you?" 

"  Kot  for  worlds,  my  dear  Miss  Mewlstone;"  but  Phillis  was 
quite  touched  at  this  unexpected  kindness.  Miss  Mewlstone 
did  not  look  sleepy  now;  her  small  blue  eyes  were  wide  open, 
and  her  round,  placid  face  wore  a  most  kindly  expression,  and 
there  was  a  tremulous  movement  of  her  hands,  as  though  they 
were  feeling  after  something.  "It  is  only  such  a  little  bit  of 
road;  and,  though  the  trees  make  it  dark,  I  am  not  the  least 
afraid  of  going  alone. " 

"Ah!  just  so.  When  we  are  young  we  are  brave;  it  is 
the  old  who  are  afraid  of  the  grasshopper.  I  like  your  spirit, 
my  dear;  and  so  does  she,  though  she  is  a  little  taken  aback  and 
disappointed;  but  anythmg  that  interests  and  rouses  her  is 
welcome.  Even  this  may  do  her  good,  for  it  will  give  her 
something  to  think  about  besides  her  own  troubles." 

"  1  have  heard  of  her  troubles — "  began  Phillis;  but  a 
moving  door  arrested  Miss  Mewlstone's  attention,  and  she  in- 
terrupted her  hurriedly. 

"Ah!  there  is  Phillips  at  last.  Just  so;  you  shall  hear 
from  me  again.  It  is  a  gray  satin — one  of  her  presents— but 
I  have  never  had  it  made  up;  for  what  is  the  use,  when  we 
keep  no  company?"  went  on  Miss  Mewlstone,  incoherently. 
"  Oh!  is  that  you,  Phillips?  Please  go  with  this  young  lady 
to  the  lodge  gate.  You  shall  make  it  after  your  own  fash- 
ion," she  whispered  in  Phillis's  ear;  "  and  I  am  not  as  partic- 
ular as  other  people.  There  is  Magdalene  now.  Ah!  just  so. 
Good-night,  my  dear;  and  mind  the  scraper  by  the  gate." 

Phillis  was  almost  sorry  when  the  obsequious  Phillips  left 
her;  for  the  road  certainly  looked  terribly  dark.  There  was 
no  moon,  and  the  stars  chose  to  be  invisible;  and  there  was  a 
hot,  thundery  feeling  in  the  air  that  suggested  a  storm.  And 
she  moved  aside  with  a  slight  sensation  of  uneasiness — not  fear, 
of  course  not  fear — as  a  tall,  gloomy-looking  figure  bore 
swiftly  down  on  her;  for,  even  if  a  girl  be  ever  so  brave,  a 
very  tall  man  wal  king  fast  on  a  dark  night,  with  a  slouching  hat 
like  a  conspirator's,  is  rather  a  terrifying  object;  and  how 
could  she  know  that  it  was  only  Archie  Drummond  in  his  old 
garden-hat,  taking  a  consfitiitioual? 

But  he  brought  himself  up  iu  front  of  her  with  »  sudden 
jerk. 


166  KOT  LtKE  Other  GiRts. 

"  Miss  Challoner — alone  at  this  time  of  night!" 

"  Why,  it  is  not  ten;  and  1  could  not  wait  for  Dorothy  to 
fetch  me,"  returned  Pliillis,  bound  to  defend  herself,  and  quite 
palpitating  with  relief,  not  that  she  was  afraid — not  a  bit  of 
it— but,  still,  Mr.  Drummond's  presence  was  very  welcome. 

"  1  suppose  I  shall  do  as  well  as  Dorothy?"  he  returned, 
veering  round  with  the  greatest  ease,  just  as  though  he  were 
Dick,  and  bound  to  escort  a  Challoner.  "  Challouers'  Squire  " 
— that  was  Dick's  name  among  people. 

"Oh,  poor  Dick!"  thought  Phillis,  with  a  sudden  rush  of 
tenderness  for  her  old  playmate;  and  then  she  said,  demurely, 
but  with  a  spice  of  malice: 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Druiumond.  The  road  is  so  gloomy  that 
I  shall  be  glad  of  your  escort  this  evening;  but  we  shall  have 
to  do  without  that  sort  of  thing  now,  for  our  business  may 
often  b«ing  us  out  after  dark,  and  we  must  learn  not  to  be 
too  particular." 

"  Oh,  this  must  not  be!"  he  returned,  decidedly;  and, 
though  it  was  too  dark  to  see  his  face,  she  knew  by  his  voice 
that  he  was  dreadfully  shocked.  "  1  must  see  your  mother 
and  talk  to  her  about  this,  for  it  would  never  do  for  you  to 
run  such  risks.  I  could  not  allow  it  for  a  moment;  and,  as 
your  clergvmiin  '* — coming  down  from  his  high  horse,  and 
stammering  a  litlle — "  I  have  surely — surely  a  right — "  But 
Phillis  sna[:ped  him  up  in  a  moment,  and  pretty  sharply  too, 
for  she  had  no  nation  of  a  young  man  giving  himself  airs  and. 
lecturing  her. 

"  Oh,  no  right  at  all!"  she  assured  him;  "  clergymen  could 
only  rebuke  evil-doers,  to  which  class  she  and  her  sisters  did 
not  belong,  thank  Heaven!"  to  which  Mr.  Drummond  devoutly 
said  an  "amen."  "And  would  he  please  tell  her  if  dress- 
makers were  al'iVays  met  two  and  two,  like  the  animals  in  the 
ark?  and  how  would  it  sound  when  she  or  Nan  had  been  fit- 
ting on  a  dress,  on  a  winter's  evening,  if  they  were  to  refuse 
to  leave  the  house  until  Dorothy  fetched  them?  and  how — " 
But  here  Mr.  Drummond  checked  her,  and  the  darkness  hid 
his  smile. 

"  Notv  you  are  beyond  me,  Miss  Challoner.  In  a  matter  of 
detail,  a  man,  even  a  parson,  is  often  at  fault.  Is  there  no 
other  way  of  managing  this  odious  business?  Forgive  me;  the 
word  slipped  out  by  accident.  Could  you  not  do  the  fitting, 
or  whatever  you  call  it,  by  daylight,  and  stay  at  home  quietly 
in  the  evening,  like  other  young  ladies?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  returned  Phillis,  promptly.  She  had  not 
the  least  idea  why  it  could  not  be  done;  indeed,  if  she  had  been 


ITOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  16T 

perfectly  cool — which  she  was  not,  for  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  de- 
cidedly stroked  her  the  wrong  way,  aiid  ruffled  lier  past  endur- 
ance— she  would  .have  appreciated  the  temperat*^,  counsel 
vouchsafed  her,  and  acquiesced  in  it  without  a  murmur;  but 
now  she  seemed  bent  on  contradiction. 

"  Our  opinions  seem  to  clash  to-night,*'  returned  Mr.  Drum- 
mond,  good-humoredly,  but  feeling  that  the  young  lady  beside 
hiiu  had  decidedly  a  will  of  her  own.  "  She  is  very  nice,  but 
she  is  not  as  gentle  as  her  sister,"  he  said  to  himself,  which 
was  hard  on  Pliillis,  who,  though  she  was  not  mek,  being  a 
girl  of  spirit,  was  wholesomely  sweet  and  sound  to  the  heart's 
core. 

"  One  may  be  supposed  to  know  one's  business  best,*'  she 
replied,  rather  dryly  to  this.  And  then,  fearing  that  she  might 
seem  ungracious  to  a  stranger,  who  did  not  know  her  and  her 
little  ways,  she  went  on  in  a  more  cordial  tone:  "  I  am  afraid 
you  think  me  a  little  cross  to-night;  but  I  have  been  having  a 
stand-up  fight,  and  am  rather  tired.  Trying  to  battle  against 
other  people's  prejudices  makes  one  irritable.  And  tiien,  be- 
cauie  1  am  down  and  out  of  heart  about  things,  our  clergy- 
man thinks  fit  to  lecture  me  on  propriety." 

"  Only  for  your  good.  You  must  forgive  me  if  I  have  taken 
too  much  upon  myself,"  returned  Mr.  Drunimond,  with  much 
compunction.  "  You  seem  so  lonely — no  father  or  brother; 
at  least — pardon  me — 1  believe  you  have  no  brother?" 

"  Oh,  no;  we  have  no  brother,"  sighed  Phillis.  Their  ac- 
quaintance was  in  too  early  a  stage  to  warrant  her  in  bringing 
in  Dick's  name.  Besides,  that  sort  of  heterogeneous  rela- 
tionship is  so  easily  Uiisconstrued.  And  then  she  added:  "  I 
sea.     You  meant  to  be  very  kind,  and  I  was  very  ungrateful." 

"  I  only  wish  1  could  find  some  way  of  helping  you  all," 
was  his  reply  to  this.  But  it  was  said  with  such  frank  kind- 
ness that  Phillis's  brief  haughtiness  vanished.  They  were 
standing  at  the  gate  of  the  Friary  by  this  time,  but  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  still  lingered.     It  was  Phillis  who  dismissed  him. 

"  Good-night,  and  many  thanks,"  she  said,  brightly.  "  It 
is  too  late  to  ask  you  in;  for,  you  see,  even  dress-makers  have 
their  notions  of  propriety."  And  as  she  uttered  this  mali- 
cious little  speech,  the  young  man  broke  into  a  laugh  that  was 
heard  by  Dorothy  in  her  little  kitchen. 

"  Oh,  that  is  too  bad  of  j'ou.  Miss  Challoner,"  he  said,  as 
soon  as  he  recovered  himself;  but,  nevertheless,  he  liked  the 
girl  better  for  her  little  joke. 

Mr.  Drunimond's  constitutional  had  lasted  so  long  that 
Mattie  grew  quite  frightened,  and  came  down  in  her  drab 


168  NOT    LIKE    OTHEU    GIELS. 

dressing-gown  to  wait  for  him.  It  was  not  a  becoming  cob- 
tume,  but  it  was  warm  and  comfortable;  but  then,  Mat  tie  never 
considered  what  became  her.  If  any  one  had  admired  her,  or 
oared  how  she  looked  or  what  she  wore,  or  had  taken  an  inter- 
est in  her  for  her  own  sake,  she  would  doubtless  have  de- 
veloped an  honest  liking  for  pretty  things.  But  what  did  it 
matter  under  the  present  circumstances?  Mr.  Drummoud. 
was  lighting  his  chamber  candle  when  Matlie  rushed  out  on 
him — a  grotesque  little  figure,  all  capes  and  frills. 

"  Oil,  Archie,  how  you  frightened  me!  Where  have  you 
been?'' 

Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  this. 

"  I  am  not  aware,  Matilda  " — for  in  severe  moods  he  would 
call  her  by  her  full  nam'^,  a  thing  she  especially  disliked  from 
him — "  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  accountable  to  you  for  my 
actions.  Neither  am  I  particularly  obliged  to  you  for  spying 
upon  me  in  this  way.*'  For  tlie  siglit  of  Mattie  at  this  time 
of  night  was  peculiarly  distasteful.  Why  was  he  to  be  watched 
in  his  on^i  house? 

"  Oh,  dear,  Archie!  How  can  you  say  such  things?  Spy 
on  you,  indeed!  when  there  is  a  storm  coming  up,  and  I  was 
BO  anxious." 

"  1  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  returned  Archie,  iron- 
ically, "  but,  as  you  see  I  am  safe,  don't  you  think  you  had 
better  take  off  that  thing  " — pointing  to  the  obnoxious  gar- 
ment— "  and  go  to  bed?"  And  such  was  his  tone  that  poor 
Mattie  fled  without  a  word,  and  cried  a  little  in  her  dark  room, 
because  Archie  would  not  be  kind  to  her  and  let  her  love  him, 
but  was  always  finding  fault  with  one  trifle  or  other.  To- 
night it  was  her  poor  old  dressing-gown,  which  had  been  her 
mother's,  and  had  been  considered  good  enough  for  Mattie. 
And  then  he  had  called  her  a  spy.  And  here  she  gave  a  sob 
that  caught  Archie's  ears  as  he  passed  her  door. 

"  Good-night,  you  little  goose!"  he  called  out,  for  tho 
sound  made  him  uncomfortable;  and  though  the  words  were 
contemptuous,  the  voice  was  not,  and  Mattie  at  once  dried  her 
eyes  and  was  comforted. 

But  before  Archie  went  to  sleep  that  night  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  it  was  his  duty  as  a  clergyman  and  a  Christian  to 
look  over  Phillis's  willfulness,  and  to  befriend  to  the  utmost  of 
his  power  the  stranger,  widow,  and  fatherless,  that  Providence 
had  placed  at  his  very  gates. 

"  They  are  so  very  lonely,  poor  things!"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  not  a  man  about  them.  By  the  bye,  I  noticed  she  did  not 
wear  au  engagement-ring."    But  which  was  the  "she''  Ji^ 


kOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  l^if 

meant  was  an  enigma  known  only  to  himself.  "  Not  a  man 
about  them!"  he  repeated,  in  a  satisfied  manner,  for  as  yet 
the  name  of  Dick  had  not  sounded  in  his  ear. 


CHAPTER  XXT. 

BREAKING  THE   PEACE. 

Nan  went  to  Beach  House  to  fetch  her  mother  home,  es" 
corted  by  Laddie,  who  was  growing  a  most  rollicking  and 
friendly  little  animal,  and  a  great  consolation  to  his  mistress, 
whom  he  loved  with  all  his  doggish  heart. 

They  all  three  came  back  in  an  old  fly  belonging  to  their 
late  host,  and  found  Phillis  waiting  for  them  on  ihe  doorstep, 
who  made  her  mother  the  following  liLtle  speech: 

"  Now,  mammie,  you  are  to  kiss  us,  and  tell  us  what  good, 
industrious  girls  we  have  been;  and  then  you  are  to  shut 
your  eyes  and  look  at  nothing,  and  then  sit  down  in  your  old 
arm-chair,  and  try  and  make  the  best  of  everything." 

"  Welcome  home,  dearest  mother,"  said  Nan,  softly  kissing 
her.  "  Home  is  home,  however  poor  it  may  be;  and  thank 
God  for  it,"  finished  the  girl,  reverently. 

*'  Oh,  my  darlings!"  exclaimed  the  poor  mother;  and  then 
she  cried  a  little,  and  Dulce  came  up  and  put  a  rose-bud  in 
her  hand,  and  Dorothy  executed  an  old-fashioned  courtesy, 
and  hoped  that  her  mistress  and  the  dear  young  ladies  would 
try  and  make  themselves  as  happy  as  possible. 

"Happy,  you  silly  old  Dorothy!  of  course  we  mean  to  be 
as  busy  as  bees,  and  as  frolicsome  as  kittens!"  returntd  Phil- 
lis, who  had  recovered  her  old  sprightliuess,  and  was  ready  to- 
day for  a  dozen  Mrs.  Cheynes  and  all  the  clergy  of  the  dio- 
cese. "  Now,  mammie,  you  are  only  to  peep  into  this  room. 
This  is  our  work-room,  and  those  are  the  curtains  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  was  kind  enough  to  hang.  In  old  days,"  continued 
Phillis,  with  mock  solemnity,  "  the  parson  would  have  pro- 
nounced a  benediction,  but  the  modern  Anglican  performs 
another  function,  and  with  much  gravity  ascends  the  steps 
and  hooks  up  the  curtains  of  the  new-comers." 

*'  Oh,  Phillis,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd!  I  am  sure  it  was 
very  good-natured  of  him.  Come,  mother,  dear,  we  will  not 
stand  here  listening  to  her  nonsense."  And  Nan  drew  her 
mother  to  the  parlor. 

It  was  a  very  small  room,  but  still  snug  and  comfortable, 
and  full  of  pretty  things.  Tfa  was  laid  on  the  little  round 
table  that  would  hardly  hold  five,  as  Nan  once  observed,  think- 


170  KOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GiUtS. 

ing  of  Diet;  and  the  evening's  sunshine  was  stealing  in,  but 
not  too  obtrusively.  Mrs.  Challoner  tried  not  to  think  it  dull, 
and  endeavored  to  say  a  word  of  praise  at  the  arrangements 
Dulce  pointed  out  to  her;  but  the  thought  of  Glen  Cottage, 
and  her  pretty  drawing-room,  and  the  veranda  with  its  climb- 
ing roses,  and  the  shady  lawn  with  the  seat  under  the  acacia- 
trees,  almost  overpowered  her.  That  they  should  come  to 
this!  That  they  should  be  sitting  in  this  mean  little  parlor, 
where  there  was  hardly  room  to  move,  looiiing  out  at  the  lit- 
tle strip  of  grass,  and  the  medlar-tree,  and  the  empty  green- 
house! Nan  saw  her  mother's  lip  quiver,  and  adroitly  turned 
the  subject  to  their  neighbors.  She  had  so  much  to  say  about 
Mr.  Drummond  and  his  sister  that  Mrs.  Challoner  grew  quite 
interested;  nevertheless,  it  was  a  surprise  even  to  Nan  when 
Dorothy  presently  opened  the  door,  and  Mr.  Drummond  coolly 
walked  in,  with  a  magnificent  basket  of  roses  in  his  hand. 

Nan  gravely  introduced  him  to  her  mother,  and  the  young 
man  accosted  her;  but  there  was  a  little  surprise  on  his  facBo 
He  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  Mrs.  Challoner  would  be  a 
far  older-looking  and  more  homely  person;  but  the  stately 
looking  woman  before  him  might  have  been  an  older  and  faded 
edition  of  Nan.  Somehow,  her  appearance  confused  him,  and 
he  commenced  with  an  apology  for  his  intrusion: 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  been  so  unceremonious,  I  am  afraid, 
as  you  have  just  arrived,  my  visit  will  seem  an  intrusion;  but 
my  sister  thought  you  would  like  some  of  our  roses  " — he  had 
obliged  poor  Mattie  to  say  so — "  and,  as  we  had  cut  some  fine 
ones,  we  thought  you  ought  to  have  them  while  they  are 
fresh. '^ 

"  Thank  you;  this  is  very  kind  and  neighborly,*'  returned 
Mrs.  Challoner;  but,  though  her  tone  was  perfectly  civil.  Nan 
thought  her  manner  a  little  cold,  and  hastened  to  interpose 
with  a  few  glowing  words  of  admiration. 

"  The  roses  were  lovely;  they  were  finer  than  those  at  Long- 
mead,  or  even  at  Fitzroy  Lodge,  though  Lady  Fitzroy  prided 
herself  on  her  roses.'*  Archie  pricked  up  his  ears  at  this  lat- 
ter name,  which  escaped  quite  involuntarily  from  Nan. 
"  And  was  it  not  good  of  Miss  Drummond  to  spare  them  so 
many,  and  of  Mr.  Drummond  to  carry  them?"  all  of  which 
Nan  said  with  a  sweet  graciousness  that  healed  the  young 
man's  embarrassment  in  a  moment. 

*'  Yes,  indeed!"  echoed  Mrs.  Challoner,  obedient,  as  usual, 
to  her  daughter's  lead.  "  And  you  must  thank  your  sister, 
Mr.  Drummond,  and  tell  her  hosv  fond  my  girls  are  of  flow- 
ers."   But  though  Mrs.  Challoner  said  this,  the  roses  were 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  171 

not  without  thorns  for  her.  Why  had  uot  Miss  Drumniond 
brought  them  herself?  She  was  pleased  indeed  that,  under 
existing  circumstances,  any  one  should  be  civil  to  lier  girls, 
but  was  there  uot  a  little  patronage  intended?  She  was  not 
quite  snre  that  she  rejoiced  in  having  such  neighbors.  Mr. 
l)rumiDoud  was  nice  and  gentlemanly,  but  he  was  far  too 
young  and  handsome  for  an  unmarried  clergs*man;  at  least, 
that  was  her  old-fashioned  opinion;  and  when  one  has  three 
very  good-looking  daughters,  and  dreads  the  idea  of  losing 
one,  one  may  be  pardoned  for  distrusting  eveu  a  basket  of 
roses. 

If  Mr.  Drummond  perceived  her  slight  coldness,  he  seemed 
quite  determined  to  overcome  it.  He  took  small  notice  uf 
Nan,  who  busied  herself  at  once  afrangiug  the  flowers  under 
his  eyes;  even  Phillis,  who  looked  good  and  demure  this  even- 
ing, failed  to  obtain  a  word.  He  talked  almost  exclusively  to 
Mi-s.  Challoner,  plying  her  with  artful  questions  about  their 
old  home,  which  he  now  learned  was  at  Oldfield,  and  gaining 
scraps  of  information  that  enabled  him  to  obtain  a  pretty 
clear  insight  into  their  present  circumstances. 

Mrs.  Challoner,  wh )  was  a  soft-ht-arted  woman,  was  not 
proof  asfainst  so  much  sympathy.  She  perceived  that  i^Ir. 
Drummond  was  sorry  for  them,  and  she  began  to  warm  a  lit- 
tle towaid  him.  His  manner  was  so  respectful,  his  words  so 
discreet;  and  then  he  b^ha^e  1  so  nicely,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  girls,  though  Nun  was  looking  so  pretty,  but  just  talking 
to  her  in  a  grave,  responsible  wayj  as  though  he  were  a  gray- 
haired  man  of  sixty. 

Phillis  was  not  quite  sure  she  approved  of  it.  In  the  old 
days  she  had  never  been  so  excluded  from  conversation;  she 
would  have  liked  a  word  nowand  then.  But  Nan  sat  by  quite 
contented;  it  pleased  her  to  see  her  mother  roused  and  in- 
terested. 

When  Mr.  Drummond  took  his  leave,  she  accompanied  him 
to  the  door,  and  thanked  him  quite  wai'mly. 

'*  You  have  done  her  so  much  good,  for  this  first  evening  is 
such  a  trial  to  her,  poor  thing!"  said  Nan,  lifting  her  lovely 
eyes  to  the  young  man's  face. 

"  I  am  so  glad!  1  will  come  again,"  he  said,  rather  inco- 
herently. And  as  he  went  out  of  the  green  door  he  told  him- 
self that  it  was  his  clear  duty  to  befriend  this  interesting  fam- 
ily. He  ought  to  have  gone  home  and  written  to  Grace,  for 
it  was  long  past  the  time  when  she  always  expected  to  hear 
from  him.  But  the  last  day  or  two  he  had  rather  shirked  this 
duty.     It  would  be  difficult  to  explaiu  to  Grace.     She  mighfe 


173  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS. 

be  rather  shocked,  for  she  was  a  little  prim  in  such  things, 
being  her  mother's  daughter.  He  thought  he  would  ask  Mat- 
tie  to  tell  her  about  the  Challoners,  and  that  he  was  busy  and 
would  write  soon;  and  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  this, 
he  went  down  to  the  sea-shore  and  amused  himself  by  sitting 
on  a  break-water  and  staring  at  the  fishing-smacks — which,  of 
course,  showed  how  very  busy  he  was. 

"  I  think  1  shall  like  Mr.  Drummond,"  observed  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner,  in  a  tolerant  tone,  when  Nan  had  accompanied  the  young 
vicar  to  the  door.  "  He  seems  an  earnest,  good  sort  of  young 
man." 

"  Yes,  mammie,  dear.  And  I  am  sure  he  has  fallen  in  love 
with  you,"  returned  Philh's,  naughtily,  "  for  he  talked  to  no 
one  else.  And  you  are  so  young  looking  and  pretty  that,  of 
course,  no  one  could  be  surprised  if  he  did.''  But  though  Mrs. 
Challoner  said,  "  Oh,  Phillis!"  and  looked  dreadfully  shocked 
in  a  proper,  matronly  way.  what  was  the  use  of  that,  when  the 
mischievous  girl  burst  oui.  laughing  in  her  face? 

But  the  interruption  had  done  them  all  good,  and  the  even- 
ing passed  less  heavily  than  they  had  dared  to  hope.  And 
when  Mrs.  Challoner  complained  of  fatigue  and  retired  early, 
escorted  by  Dorothy,  who  was  dying  for  a  chat  with  her  mis- 
tress, the  three  girls  went  out  in  the  garden  and  walked, 
after  their  old  fashion,  arm  in  arm  up  and  down  the  lawn, 
with  Nan  in  the  middle;  though  Dulce  pouted  and  pretended 
that  the  lawn  was  too  narrow,  and  that  Phillis  was  pushing 
her  on  the  gravel  path. 

Their  mother's  window  was  open,  and  they  could  have  heard 
snatches  of  Dorothy's  conversation  if  they  had  chosen  to  listen. 
Dulce  stood  still  a  moment,  and  wafted  a  little  kiss  toward 
her  mother's  room. 

"  Dear  old  manisie!  She  has  been  very  good  this  evening, 
has  she  not,  Nan?  She  has  only  cried  the  least  wee  bit,  when 
you  kissed  her." 

"Yes,  indeed!  And  somebody  else  has  been  good  too. 
What  do  you  say,  Phillis?  Has  not  Dulce  been  the  best  child 
possible?" 

"  Oh,  Nan,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  be  otherwise,"  returned 
Dulce,  in  snch  an  earnest  manner  that  it  made  her  sisters 
laugh.  "  Do  you  think  I  could  see  you  both  so  good  and 
cheerful,  making  the  best  of  things,  and  never  complaining, 
even  when  the  tears  are  in  your  eyes — as  yours  are  often. 
Nan,  when  you  think  no  one  is  looking — and  not  try  and  copy 
your  example?  I  am  dreadfully  proud  of  you  both — that 
is  what  I  am,"  continued  the  warm-hearted  girl.     "I  never 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  173 

knew  before  what  was  in  my  sistera.  And  now  1  feel  as  though 
I  want  the  whole  world  to  come  and  admire  my  Phil  lis  and 
Nan!'^ 

"  Little  flatterer!"  but  Nan  squeezed  Dulce^s  arm  affec- 
tionately. 

And  Phillis  said,  in  a  joking  tone: 

"  Ah,  it  was  not  half  so  bad.  This  evening  there  was  moth- 
er looking  so  dear  and  pretty,  and  there  weie  you  girls;  and, 
though  the  nest  is  small,  it  feels  warm  and  cozy.  And  if  we 
could  only  forget  Glen  Cottage,  and  leave  off  missing  the  old 
faces,  which  1  never  shall — "  ("Nor  I,"  echoed  Nan,  with 
a  deep  sigh,  fetched  from  somewhere) — "  and  root  ourselves 
afresh,  we  should  contrive  not  to  be  unhappy." 

"  I  think  it  is  our  duty  to  cultivate  cheerfulness,"  added 
Nan,  seriously;  and  after  this  they  fell  to  a  discussion  on 
ways  ani  means.  As  usual,  Phillis  was  chief  spokeswoman, 
but  to  Nan  belonged  the  privilege  of  the  deciding  vote. 

The  next  few  days  were  weary  ones  to  Mrs.  Challoner;  there 
was  still  much  to  be  done  before  the  Friary  could  be  2)ro- 
nounced  in  order.  The  girls  spent  most  of  the  daylight  hours 
unpacking  boxes,  sorting  arid  arranging  their  treasures,  and, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  helping  Dorothy  to  polish  furniture 
and  wash  glass  and  china. 

Mrs.  Challoner,  who  was  not  strong  enough  for  these  house- 
hold labors,  found  herself  condemned  to  hem  new  dusters  and 
mend  old  table-linen,  to  the  tune  of  her  own  sad  thoughts. 
Mr.  Drummond  found  her  sorting  a  little  heap  on  the  parlor 
table  when  he  dropped  in  casually  one  morning — this  time 
with  some  very  fine  (^herriea  that  his  sister  thongnt  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner would  enjoy. 

When  Mr.  Drummond  began  his  little  speech,  he  could 
have  sworn  that  there  were  tears  on  the  poor  lady's  checks; 
but  when  he  had  finished  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile, 
and  thanked  him  warmly,  and  then  they  had  quite  a  nice  chat 
together. 

Mr.  Drummond's  visit  was  quite  a  godsend,  she  told  him, 
for  her  girls  were  busy  and  had  no  time  to  talk  to  her;  and 
"  one's  thoughts  are  nok  always  pleasant  companions,"  she 
added,  with  a  sigh.  And  Mr.  Drummond,  who  had  caught 
sight  of  the  tears,  was  at  once  sympathetic,  and  expressed 
himself  in  such  feeling  terms — for  he  was  more  at  ease  in  the 
girls'  absence — that  Mrs.  Challoner  opened  out  in  the  most 
confiding  way,  and  told  him  a  great  deal  that  he  had  been 
anxious  to  learn. 

But  she  found  out,  to  her  dismay,  that  he  disapproved  of 


174  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

her  girls'  plans;  for  he  told  her  so  at  once,  and  in  the  coolest 
manner.  The  opportunity  for  airing  his  views  on  the  subject 
was  far  too  good  to  be  lost.  Mrs.  Challoner  was  alone;  she 
was  in  a  low,  dejected  mood;  the  rulers  of  the  household  were 
gathered  in  an  upper  chamber.  What  would  PhilJis  have  said, 
as  she  warbled  a  rather  flat  accompaniment  to  Nan's  "Bon- 
nie Dundee/'  which  she  was  singing  to  keep  up  their  spirits 
over  a  piece  of  hard  work,  if  she  had  known  that  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  was  at  that  moment  in  possession  of  her  mother's  ear? 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Drummond,  this  is  very  sad,  if  every  one  should 
think  as  you  do  about  my  poor  girls!  and  Phillis  does  so  ob- 
ject to  being  called  lomantic;"  for  he  had  hinted  in  a  gentle- 
manly way  that  he  thought  the  whole  scheme  was  crude  and 
girlish  and  quixotic  to  a  degree. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  tell  her,  then,'*  returned  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, in  a  soothing  tone,  for  Mrs.  Challoner  was  beginning 
to  look  agitated.  "I  am  afraid  nothing  I  say  will  induce 
Miss  Challoner  to  give  up  her  pet  scheme;  but  1  felt,  as  your 
clergyman,  it  was  my  duty  to  let  you  know  my  opim'nn.'' 
And  here  Archie  looked  so  very  solemn  that  Mrs.  Challoner, 
being  a  weak  woman,  and  apt  to  overvalue  the  least  expres- 
sion of  masculine  opinion,  grew  more  and  more  alarmed. 

"  Oh,  yes!"  she  faltered;  "it  is  very  good — very  nice  of 
yon  to  tell  me  this."  Phillis  would  have  laughed  in  his  face, 
and  Mrs.  Cheyne  would  have  found  something  to  say  about 
his  youth;  but  in  Mrs.  Challoner's  eyes,  though  she  was  an 
older  woman,  Archie's  solemnity  and  Oriental  beard  carried 
tremendous  weight  with  them.  He  might  be  young,  never- 
theless she  was  bound  to  listen  meekly  to  him,  and  to  respect 
his  counsel  as  one  who  had  a  certain  authority  over  her. 
"  Oh,  you  are  so  very  good!  and  if  only  my  girls  had  not 
made  up  their  minds  so  quickly!  but  now  what  can  1  do  but 
feel  very  uncomfortable  after  3^ou  have  told  me  this?'' 

"  Ob,  as  to  that,  there  is  always  time  for  everything;  it  is 
never  too  late  to  mend,"  returned  Mr.  Drummond,  tritely. 
"  I  meant  from  the  first  to  tell  you  what  1  thought,  if  I 
should  ever  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you  alone. 
You  see,  we  Oxford  men  have  our  own  notions  about  things; 
we  do  not  always  go  with  the  tide.  If  your  daughters  " — 
here  he  hesitated  and  grew  red,  for  he  was  a  modest,  honest 
young  fellow  in  the  main—"  pardon  me,  but  I  am  only  pro- 
posing an  hypothesis — if  they  wanted  to  make  a  sensation  and 
get  themselves  talked  about,  no  doubt  they  would  achieve  a 
success,  for  the  novelty — "  But  here  he  stopped,  reduced  to 
Biieuce  by  the  shocked  expression  of  Mrs.  Challoner's  face. 


i^Of    LTKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  175 

"Mr.  Drummond!  my  girls— -oiake  a  sensation — be  talked 
about!"  she  gasped;  and  all  the  spirit  of  her  virtuous  matron' 
hood,  and  all  the  instinctive  feeling  that  years  of  culture  and 
ingrained  refinement  of  nature  had  engendered,  shone  in  her 
eyes.  Her  Nan  and  Phillis  and  Dulce  to  draw  this  on  them- 
selves! 

Now,  at  this  unlucky  moment,  when  the  maternal  fires  were 
all  alight,  who  should  enter  but  Phillis,  wanting  "  pins,  and 
dozens  of  them— quickly,  please,''  and  still  warbling  flatly 
that  refrain  of  "  Bonnie  Dundee." 

"Oh,  Phillis!  Oh,  my  darling  child!"  cried  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner,  quite  hysterically,  "  do  you  know  what  your  clergyman 
says?  and  if  he  should  say  such  things,  what  will  be  the  world's 
opinion?  No,  Mr.  Drummond,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  angry. 
Of  course  you  are  telling  us  this  for  our  good;  but  1  do  not 
know  when  I  have  been  so  shocked." 

"  Why,  what  is  this?"  demanded  Phillis,  calmly;  but  she 
fixed  her  eyes  on  the  unlucky  clergyman,  who  began  to  wish 
that  that  last  speech  had  not  been  uttered. 

"  He  says  it  is  to  make  a  sensation — to  be  talked  about — 
that  you  are  going  to  do  this,"  gasped  Mrs.  Challoner,  who 
was  far  too  much  upset  to  weigh  words  truly. 

"  What!"  Phillis  only  ultered  that  very  unmeaning  mono- 
syllable; nevertheless,  Archie  jumped  from  his  seat  as  though 
he  had  been  shot. 

"  Mrs.  Challoner,  really  this  is  too  bad!  No,  you  must  al- 
low me  to  explain,"  as  Phillis  turned  aside  with  a  curling  lip, 
as  though  she  would  leave  them.  He  actually  went  between 
her  and  the  door,  as  though  he  meant  to  prevent  her  egress 
forcibly.  There  is  no  knowing  to  what  lengths  he  would  have 
gone  in  his  sudden  agitation.  "  Only  wait  a  moment  until  1 
explain  myself.  Your  mother  has  misunderstood  me  alto- 
goLher.     Never  has  such  a  thought  entered  my  mind!" 

"  Oh,"  observed  Phillis.  But  now  she  stood  still  and  began 
to  collect  her  pins  out  of  her  mother's  basket.  "  Perhaps, 
as  this  is  rather  unpleasant,  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  tell 
me  what  it  was  you  said  to  my  mother?"  And  she  spoke  like 
a  young  princess  who  had  just  received  an  insult. 

"  I  desire  nothing  more,"  returned  Archie,  determined  to 
defend  himself  at  all  costs.  "  I  had  been  speaking  to  Mrs. 
Challoner  about  all  this  unfortunate  business.  She  was  good 
enough  to  repose  confidence  in  me,  and,  as  your  clergyman,  I 
felt  myself  bound  to  tell  her  exactly  my  opmions  on  the  sub- 
ject." 


if6  NOT    LIKE    OTfiER    GIRLS. 

*'  I  do  not  quite  see  the  necessity;  but  no  doubt  you  know 
best,"  was  Phillis's  somewhat  sarcastic  answer. 

"  At  least,  I  did  it  for  the  best/'  returned  the  young  man, 
humbly.  *'  1  pointed  out  things  to  Mrs.  Challoner,  as  I  told 
you  1  should.  I  warned  her  what  the  world  would  say — tbat 
it  would  regard  your  plan  as  very  singular  and  perhaps  quix- 
otic.    Surely  there  is  nothing  in  this  to  offend  you?" 

"  You  have  not  touched  on  the  worst  part  of  all,"  returned 
Phillis,  with  a  little  disdain  in  her  voice.  "  About  making  a 
sensation,  I  mean." 

"  There  it  was  that  your  mother  so  entirely  misunderstood 
me.  What  1  said  was  this:  If  this  dress-making  scheme  was 
undertaken  just  to  make  a  sensation,  it  would,  of  course, 
achieve  success,  for  1  thought  the  novelty  might  take.  And 
then  I  added  that  1  was  merely  stating  an  hypothesis  by  way 
of  argument;  and  then  Mrs.  Challoner  looked  shocked,  and 
you  came  in." 

"  Is  that  all?"  asked  Phillis,  coming  down  from  her  stilts 
at  once,  for  she  knew  of  old  how  her  mother  would  confuse 
things  sometimes;  and,  if  this  were  the  truth,  she,  Phillis, 
had  been  rather  too  hard  on  him. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  see  now  any  necessity  of  quarreling  with 
me?"  returned  Mr.  Drummond,  breathing  a  little  more  freely 
as  the  frown  lessened  on  Phillis's  face.  He  wanted  to  be 
friends  with  these  girls,  not  to  turn  them  against  him. 

"  Well,  no,  I  believe  not,"  she  answered,  quite  gravely. 
"  And  1  am  sure  I  beg  your  pardon  if  1  was  rude."  But  this 
Archie  would  not  allow  for  a  moment. 

"  But,  Mr.  Drummond,  one  word  before  peace  is  quite  re- 
stored," went  on  Phillis,  with  something  of  her  old  archness, 
"  or  else  I  will  fetch  my  sisters,  and  you  will  have  the  three 
of  us  against  you." 

"  Oh,  do,  Phillis,  my  dear!"  interrupted  her  mother; 
"let  them  come  and  hear  what  Mr.  Drummond  thinks." 

"  Mammie,  how  dare  you— how  dare  you  be  so  contuma- 
cious, after  all  the  trouble  we  have  taken  to  set  your  dear, 
fidgety  mind  at  rest?  Just  look  what  you  have  done,  Mr.  • 
Drummond,"  turning  upon  him.  "  Now  I  am  not  going  to 
forgive  you,  and  we  will  not  trust  the  mother  out  of  our  sight, 
unless  you  promise  not  to  say  these  sort  of  things  to  her  when 
we  af-e  not  here  to  answer  them." 

"  But,  Miss  Challoner,  my  pastoral  conscience!"  but  hia 
eyes  twinkled  a  little. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that!"  she  retorted,  mischievously.  "I 
will  give  you  leave  to  lecture  us  collectively,  but  not  Individ- 


irOT    Ltkt!    OTHER    GIEL^.  I'^i 

tiatly;  that  mnst  not  be  thought  about  for  a  moment/'  She 
had  not  a  notion  what  the  queer  expression  on  Mr.  Drum- 
mond's  face  meant,  and  he  did  not  know  himself,  but  he  had 
the  strongest  desire  to  laugh  at  this. 

They  parted  after  this  the  best  of  friends;  and  PhilHs  tasted 
the  ciierries,  and  pronounced  them  ve'y  good. 

"You  have  quite  forgiven  me?"  Mr.  Drummond  said,  as 
she  accompanied  him  to  the  door  before  rejoining  her  sisters. 
*'  You  know  I  h.ive  promised  not  to  do  it  again  until  the  next 
time." 

"Oh,  we  shall  see  about  that!"  returned  Phillis,  good- 
humoredly.  "  Forewarned  is  forearmed,  and  there  is  a  triple 
alliance  against  you." 

"  Good  heavens,  what  mockery  it  seems!  1  never  saw  such 
girls — never!"  thought  Mr.  Drummond,  as  he  took  long 
strides  down  the  road.  "But  Mattie  is  right:  they  mean 
business,  and  nothing  in  the  world  could  change  that  girl's 
determination  if  she  had  set  herself  to  carry  a  thing  out.  I 
never  knew  a  stronger  will."  And  in  this  he  was  tolerably 
right. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

"trimmings,  NOT  SQUAILS." 

The  longest  week  must  have  an  end ;  and  so,  at  last,  the 
eventful  Monday  morning  arrived — "  Black  Monday,"  as 
Dulce  called  it,  and  then  sighed  as  she  looked  out  on  the  sun- 
shine and  the  waving  trees,  and  thought  how  delicious  a  long 
walk  or  a  game  of  tennis  would  be,  instead  of  stitch,  stitch, 
stitching  all  day.  But  Dulce  was  an  unselfish  little  soul,  and 
kept  all  these  thoughts  to  herself,  and  dressed  herself  quickly; 
for  she  had  overslept  herself,  and  Phillis  had  long  been  down- 
stairs. 

Nan  was  locking  up  the  tea-caddy  as  she  entered  the  parlor, 
and  Phillis  was  standing  by  the  table,  drawing  on  her  gloves, 
and  her  lips  were  twitching  a  little — a  way  they  had  when 
Phillis  was  nervous. 

Nan  went  up  and  kissed  her  and  gave  her  an  encouraging 
pat. 

"  This  is  for  luck,  my  dear;  and  mind  you  make  the  best 
of  poor  Miss  Milner's  dnmpy,  roundabout  little  figure. 
There,  I  have  put  the  body-hning  and  the  measuring-tape 
and  a  paper  of  pins  in  this  little  black  bag;  and  I  have  not 
forgotten  the  scissors— oh,  dear,  no!  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
scissors,"  went  on  Nan,  with  such  surprising  cheerfulness 


ltd  iJOt    LIKE    OTHtR    Gltltg. 

that  Pliillis  saw  through  it,  and  was  down  on  her  in  a  md- 
ineut: 

"  No,  Nan;  there!  I  declare  I  will  not  be  such  a  goose.  1 
am  not  nervous,  not  one  bit ;  it  is  pure  fun,  that's  what  it  is. 
Dulce,  what  a  naughty  child  you  are  to  oversleep  yourself  this 
morning,  and  I  had  not  the  heart  to  wake  you,  you  looked  so 
like  a  baby;  and  we  never  wake  babies  because  they  are  sure 
to  squall!" 

"  Oh,  Phil,  are  you  going  to  Miss  Milner's?  I  would  have 
walked  with  you  if  I  had  had  my  breakfast;  but  I  am  so 
hungry." 

"  1  could  not  possibly  wait,"  returned  Phillis;  "  punctual- 
ity is  one  of  the  first  duties  of — htm— dress-makers;  all 
orders  executed  promptly,  and  promises  performed  with  uu- 
deviating  regularity;  those  are  my  maxims.  Eat  a  good 
breakfast,  and  then  see  if  mamraie  wants  any  help,  for  Nan 
must  be  ready  for  me  at  the  work-table,  for  she  is  our  head 
cutter-out."  And  then  Phillis  nodded  briskly  and  walked 
away. 

By  a  singular  chance,  Mr.  Drummond  was  watering  his 
ferns  in  the  front  court  as  Phillis  passed,  and,  in  spite  of  her 
reluctance,  for  somehow  he  was  the  last  person  she  wanted  to 
encounter  that  day,  she  was  obliged  to  wish  him  good -morn- 
ing. 

"  Good-morning!  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  a  glorious  morning,'* 
observed  Archie,  brightly.  "  And  may  1  ask  where  you  are 
going  so  early?" 

"  Only  to  the  library,^'  returned  Phillis,  laconically;  but  the 
color  mounted  to  her  forehead.     "  We  begin  business  to-day." 

And  then  Archie  took  up  his  watering-pot,  and  refrained 
from  any  more  questions.  It  was  absurd,  perhaps,  but  at  the 
moment  he  had  forgotten,  and  the  remembrance  was  not 
pleasing. 

Phillis  felt  quite  brave  after  this,  and  walked  into  the  library 
as  though  the  place  belonged  to  her.  When  it  came  to  de- 
tails, Miss  Milner  was  far  more  nervous  than  she. 

She  would  keep  apologizing  tf)  Phillis  for  making  her  stand 
so  long,  and  she  wanted  to  hold  the  pins  and  to  pick  up  the 
scissors  that  Phillis  had  dropped;  and  when  the  young  dress- 
maker consulted  her  about  the  trimmings,  she  was  far  too 
humble  to  obtrude  her  opinions. 

"  Anything  you  think  best,  Miss  Challoner,  for  you  have 
8uch  beautiful  taste  as  never  was  seen;  and  I  am  sure  the  way 
jou  have  fitted  that  body-lining  is  just  wonderful,  and  would 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  179 

be  a  lesson  to  Miss  Slasher  for  life.  No,  don't  put  the  pins 
in  your  mouth,  there's  a  dear." 

For,  iu  her  intense  zeal,  Phillis  had  thought  herself  bound 
to  follow  the  maimers  of  Mrs.  Sloper,  the  village  factotum, 
and  she  always  did  so,  though  Nan  afterward  assured  her  that 
it  was  not  necessary,  and  that  in  this  particular  they  might  be 
allowed  to  deviate  from  example. 

But  she  was  quite  proud  of  herself  when  she  had  finished, 
for  the  material  seemed  to  mold  under  her  fingers  in  the  most 
marvelous  way,  and  she  knew  the  fit  would  be  perfect.  She 
wanted  to  rush  oil  at  once  and  set  to  work  with  Nan;  but  Miss 
Milner  would  not  let  her  off  so  easily.  There  was  orange 
wine  and  seed-cake  of  her  own  making  in  the  back  parlor, 
and  she  had  just  one  question — a  very  little  question — to  ask. 
And  here  Miss  Milner  coughed  a  little  behind  her  hand  to  gain 
time  and  recover  her  courage. 

"  The  little  papers  were  about  the  shop,  and  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings saw  one,  and — and — "  Here  Phillis  came  promptly  to 
her  relief. 

"  And  Mrs.  Trimmings  wants  to  order  a  dress,  does  she?'* 
And  Phillis  bravely  kept  down  the  sudden  sinking  of  heart  at 
the  news. 

Mrs.  Trimmings  was  the  butcher's  wife — the  sister  of  that 
very  Mrs.  Squalls  of  whom  Dulce  once  made  mention — well 
known  to  be  the  dressiest  woman  in  Hadleigh,  who  was  much 
given  to  imitate  her  betters.  The  newest  fashions,  the  best 
materials,  were  always  to  be  found  on  Mrs.  Trimmings's 
portly  figure. 

*'  What  could  1  do?"  observed  Miss  Milner,  apologetically. 
"  The  papers  were  about  the  shop,  and  what  does  the  woman 
do  but  take  one  up?  '  1  wonder  what  sort  of  dress-makers 
these  are?'  she  said,  careless-like.  '  There  is  my  new  blue  silk 
that  Andrew  brought  himself  from  London,  and  paid  five-and- 
sixpence  a  yard  for  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard;  and  I  daren't 
let  Miss  Slasher  have  it,  for  she  made  such  a  mess  of  that 
French  merino.  She  had  to  let  it  out  at  every  seam  before  I 
could  get  into  it,  and  it  is  so  tight  for  me  now  that  1  shall  be 
obliged  to  cut  it  up  for  Mary  Anne.  I  wonder  if  1  dare  try 
thi'se  new  people?' " 

"  And  what  did  you  say.  Miss  Milner?" 

*'  What  could  1  do  then,  my  dear  young  lady,  but  speak  up 
and  say  the  best  1  could  for  you?  for  though  Mrs.  Trimmings 
is  not  high — not  one  of  the  gentry,  I  mean — and  has  a  rough 
tongue  sometimes,  still  she  knows  what  good  stuff  and  good 
cutting-out  means;  and  a  word  from  her  might  do  you  a  power 


180  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

of  good  among  the  tovrn- folks,  for  her  gowns  are  always  after 
the  best  patterns." 

"  All  right!''  returned  Phillis,  cheerfully;  "  one  must  creep 
before  one  runs,  and,  until  the  gentry  employ  us,  we  ought 
to  think  ourselves  fortunate  to  work  for  the  town-people.  I 
am  not  a  bit  above  making  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Trimmings, 
though  I  would  rather  make  one  for  you,  Miss  Miluer,  because 
you  have  been  so  kind  to  us." 

*' There,  now!  didn't  1  say  there  never  were  such  young 
ladies?"  exclaimed  Miss  Milner,  quite  affected  at  this. 
"  Well,  if  you  aie  sure  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Challoner,  dear, 
will  you  please  go  to  Mrs.  Trimmings  this  morning?  for 
though  I  told  her  my  dress  was  to  be  finished  first,  still  Trim- 
mings's  isn't  a  stone's-throw  from  here;  and  you  may  as  well 
settle  a  thing  when  you  are  about  it." 

"  And  I  will  take  the  silk.  Miss  Milner,  if  you  will  kindly 
let  me  have  a  nice  piece  of  brown  paper." 

"  ludeed  and  you  will  do  no  such  thing,  Miss  Challoner; 
and  there  is  Joseph  going  down  with  the  papers  to  Mr.  Drum- 
mond's,  and  will  leave  it  at  the  Friary  as  he  passes." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  observed  Phillis,  gratefully.  "  Then  I 
will  pencil  a  word  to  my  sister,  to  let  her  know  why  1  am  de- 
tained. "    And  she  scrawled  a  line  to  Nan: 

"  Trimmings,  not  Squails.  Here  beginneth  the  first  chap- 
ter. Expect  me  when  you  see  me,  and  do  nothing  until  1 
come." 

There  was  no  side  door  at  Trimmlngs's,  and  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings was  at  the  desk,  jotting  down  legs  of  mutton,  and  en- 
tries of  gravy  beef  and  suet,  with  a  rapidity  that  woukl  have 
tried  the  braiu  of  any  other  woman  than  a  butcher's  wife. 

When  Phillis  approached,  she  looked  up  at  her  suavely,  ex- 
pecting custom. 

"Just  half  a  moment,  ma'am,"  she  said,  civilly.  "  Yes, 
Joe,  wing-rib  and  half  of  suet  to  Mrs.  Penfold,  and  a  loin  of 
lamb  and  sweet-bread  for  No.  12  Albert  Terrace.  Now, 
ma'am,  what  can  1  do  for  you?" 

"  1  have  only  come  about  your  dress,  Mrs.  Trimmings," 
returned  Phillis,  in  a  very  small  voice;  and  then  she  tried  not 
to  laugh,  as  Mrs.  Trimmings  regarded  her  with  a  broad  stare 
of  astonishment,  which  took  her  in  comprehensively,  hat, 
dress,  and  neat  dog-skin  gloves. 

"  You  might  have  taken  up  a  pen  and  knocked  me  down 
with  it,"  was  Mrs.  Trimmings's  graphic  description  of  her 
feelings  afterward,  as  she  carved  a  remarkably  fine  loiu  of  veal. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS,  181 

with  a  knuckle  of  ham  and  some  kidney-beans  to  go  with  it. 
"  There  was  the  colonel  standing  by  the  desk,  Andrew;  and  he 
turned  right  round  and  looked  at  us  both.  '  I've  come  about 
your  dress,  Mrs.  Trimmings/  she  said,  as  pert-like  as  possi- 
ble. Law!  1  thought  1  should  have  dropped,  and  I  was  that 
taken  aback.'' 

Phillis's  feelings  were  not  of  the  pleasantest  when  Colonel 
Middleton  turned  round  and  looked  at  her.  There  was  an  ex- 
pression almost  of  sorrow  in  the  old  man's  eyes  as  he  so  re- 
garded her,  which  made  her  feel  hot  and  uncomfortable.  It 
was  a  relief  when  Mrs.  Trimmings  roused  from  her  stupefac- 
tion and  bustled  out  of  the  desk. 

"  This  way,  miss,"  she  said,  with  a  jerk  of  her  comely 
head.  But  her  tone  changed  a  little,  and  became  at  once 
sharp  and  familiar.  '*  1  hope  you  understand  your  business, 
for  1  never  could  abide  waste;  and  the  way  Miss  Slasher  cut 
into  that  gray  merino — and  it  only  just  meets,  so  to  say— and 
the  breadths  are  as  scanty  as  possible;  and  it  would  go  to  my 
heart  to  have  a  beautiful  piece  of  silii  spoiled,  five-and-sixpence 
a  yard,  and  not  a  flaw  in  it. " 

"  If  I  thought  1  should  spoil  your  dress  I  would  not  under- 
take it,"  returned  Phillis,  gently.  She  felt  she  must  keep 
herself  perfectly  quiet  with  this  sort  of  people.  "  My  sister 
and  1  have  just  made  up  some  very  pretty  silk  and  cashmere 
costumes,  and  they  fitted  as  perfectly  as  possible." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  observed  Mrs.  Trimmings,  in  a  patronizing 
tone.  She  had  no  idea  that  the  costumes  of  which  Phillis 
spoke  had  been  worn  by  the  young  dress-maker  at  one  of 
Lady  Fitzroy's  afternoon  parties.  She  was  not  quite  at  her 
ease  with  Phillis;  she  thought  her  a  little  high-and- mighty  in 
her  manner.  "  A  uppish  young  person,"  as  she  said  afterward; 
"  but  her  grand  airs  made  no  sort  of  difference  to  me,  I  can 
assure  you." 

There  was  no  holding  pins  or  picking  up  scissors  in  this  case. 
On  the  contrary,  Mrs.  Trimmings  watched  with  a  vigilant  eye, 
and  was  ready  to  pounce  on  Phillis  at  the  least  mistake  or 
oversight,  seemg  which,  Phillis  grew  cooler  and  more  off -hand 
every  moment.  There^  was  a  great  deal  of  haggling  over  the 
cut  of  the  sleeve  and  arrangement  of  the  drapery.  "  If  you 
will  kindly  leave  it  to  me,"  Phillis  said  once;  but  nothing  was 
further  from  Mrs.  Trimmiugs's  intention.  She  had  not  a  silk 
dress  every  day;  and  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  settle 
all  these  points  herself,  while  Miss  Slasher  had  stood  by  hum- 
bly turning  over  the  pages  of  her  fashion  books,  and  calling 
her,  at  every  sentence,  "  Ma'am,"  a  word  that  PhilJis's  lips 


183  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

had  not  yet  uttered.  Phillls's  patience  was  aloiost  tired  out 
when  she  was  at  last  allowed  to  depart,  with  a  large  brotvn- 
paper  parcel  under  her  arm.  Mrs.  Trimmings  would  have 
wrapped  it  up  in  newspaper,  but  Phillis  had  so  curtly  refused 
to  have  anything  but  brown  paper  that  her  manner  rather 
overawed  the  woman. 

Poor  Phillis!  Yes,  it  had  really  come  to  pass,  and  here  she 
was,  actually  walkmg  through  Hadleigh  in  tlie  busiest  time  of 
the  day,  with  a  large,  ugly  looking  parcel  and  a  little  black 
bag!  She  had  thought  of  sending  Dorothy  for  the  dress,  but 
she  knew  what  a  trial  it  would  have  been  to  the  old  woman  to 
see  one  of  her  young  ladies  reduced  to  this,  and  she  preferred 
lading  herself  to  hurting  the  poor  old  creature's  feelings.  So 
she  walked  out  bravely  in  her  best  attire.  But,  nevertheless, 
her  shapely  neck  would  turn  itself  now  and  then  from  side  to 
side,  as  though  in  dread  of  some  familiar  face.  And  there 
were  little  pin-pricks  all  over  her  of  irritation  and  mortified 
self-love.  "  A  thing  is  all  very  well  in  theory,  but  it  may  be 
tough  in  practice,"  she  said  to  herself.  And  she  felt  an  irre- 
sistible desire  to  return  the  oSending  dress  to  that  odious 
Trimmings  and  tell  her  she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
her—"  a  disagreeable  old  cat,"  1  am  afraid  Phillis  called  her, 
for  one  is  not  always  charitable  and  civil  spoken  in  one's 
thoughts. 

'•  We  are  going  the  same  way.  May  I  carry  that  formid- 
able-looking parcel  for  you?"  asked  a  voice  that  was  certainly 
becoming  very  familiar. 

Poor  Phillis  started  and  blushed,  but  she  looked  more  an- 
noyed than  pleased  at  the  recent  re. 

"  Mr.  Drummond,  are  you  omnipresent?  one  is  forever  en- 
countering you!"  she  said,  quite  pettishly;  but  when  Archie 
only  laughed,  and  tried  to  obtain  possession  of  the  parcel,  she 
resisted,  and  would  have  none  of  his  assistance. 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  she  said;  "  1  could  not  think  of  such  a 
thing!  Fancy  the  vicar  of  Hadleigh  condescending  to  carry 
home  Mrs.  Trimmings's  dress!" 

"Mrs.  Trimmings's  dress?"  repeated  Mr.  Drummond,  in 
a  rapid  crescendo.  "  Oh,  Miss  Challoner!  I  declare  this  beats 
everything!" 

Phillis  threw  him  a  glance.  She  meant  it  to  be  cool,  but 
she  could  not  keep  the  sadness  out  of  her  eyes;  they  did  so 
contradict  the  assumed  lightness  of  her  words: 

"  Miss  Milner  was  far  more  considerate;  she  made  Joseph 
carry  hers  to  the  Friary  when  he  left  your  papers.  Was  he 
Hot  a  benevolent  Joseph?     Mrs.  Trimmings  wanted  to  wrap 


iJOi*    ttKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  18§ 

Up  her  silk  in  newspaper,  but  1  said  to  myself,  *  One  must 
draw  the  line  somewiiere,'  atid  so  I  held  out  for  brown  paper. 
Do  you  think  you  coulJ  have  offered  to  carry  a  parcel  in  news- 
paper, Mr.  Druranioiid?  Oh,  by  the  bye,  how  can  you  conde- 
scend to  walk  wiih  a  dress-maker?  But  this  is  a  quiet  road, 
and  no  one  will  see  you/' 

"  Parduu  Qie  if  I  contradict  you,  but  there  is  Colonel  Mid- 
dleton  looking  over  his  garden  palings  this  moment,"  returned 
Mr.  Drummond,  who  had  just  become  painfully  aware  of  the 
fact. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  and  speak  to  him, 
then?  for  you  see  I  am  in  no  need  of  help,"  retorted  Phillis, 
who  was  sore  all  over,  and  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  yet 
would  have  bien  offended  if  he  had  taken  her  at  her  word. 
But  Mr.  Drummond,  who  felt  his  position  an  uncomfortable 
one,  and  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  the  colonel's  banter,  was  not 
mean  enough  to  take  advantage  of  her  dismissal.  He  had 
joined  himself  to  her  company  out  of  pure  good  nature,  for  it 
was  a  hot  day  and  the  parcel  was  heavy;  but  she  would  have 
none  of  his  assistance. 

So  he  only  waved  his  hand  to  his  friend,  who  took  off  his  old 
felt  hat  very  solemnly  in  return,  and  watched  them  with  a 
grieved  expression  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 

"  IsTow  I  will  bid  you  good-bye,"  he  said,  when  they  had 
reached  the  vicarage. 

Phillis  said  nothing,  but  she  held  out  her  hand,  and  there 
was  a  certain  brightness  in  her  eyes  that  showed  she  was 
pleased. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,  every  inch  of  him,  and  I  won't  quar- 
rel with  him  any  more,"  she  thought,  as  she  walked  up  to  the 
Friary. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  it  would  have  been  if  we  were  still  at  Glen 
Cottage  and  he  could  see  us  at  our  best,  and  we  were  able  to 
entertain  him  in  our  old  fashion!  How  Carrie  and  the  other 
jy'wls  would  have  liked  him!  and  how  jealous  Dick  would  have 
been!  for  he  never  liked  our  bringing  strange  young  men  to 
the  house,  and  always  found  fault  with  them  if  he  could." 
And  here  Phillis  sighed,  and  for  the  moment  Mrs.  Trimmings 
was  forgotten. 

CHAPTER   XXni. 

/'BRAVO,    ATALANTa!'* 

Phillis  received  quite  an  ovation  as  soon  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold.     Dulce,  who  was  listening  for  her  footstep,  rushed 


i84  iJOT    LIKE    OTHER    GiRLg. 

out  into  the  little  hall  and  dragged  her  in,  as  though  she  were 
too  weary  to  have  any  movement  or  volition  of  her  own.  And 
then  Xan  came  up  in  her  calm,  elder-sisterly  way,  and  put 
her  arm  round  her,  and  hoped  she  was  not  so  very  tired,  and 
there  was  so  much  to  say  and  so  much  to  do,  and  tjhe  wanted 
her  advice,  and  so  on. 

And  on  Kan's  forehead  lay  a  thoughtful  pucker,  and  on  the 
center-table  were  sundry  breadths  of  green  silk,  crisp  looking 
and  faintly  bronzed,  like  withered  leaves  with  the  sun  on  them. 

"  01],  dear!  has  MissDrummond  been  here  in  my  absence?^* 
asked  Phillis,  with  the  overwhelmed  feelings  of  a  beginner 
who  has  not  yet  learned  to  separate  and  classify,  or  the  rich 
value  of  odd  moments.     "  Three  dresses  to  be  done  at  once!'* 

"  One  at  a  time.  But  never  mind  Miss  Drunimond's 
this  moment.  Mother  is  safe  in  the  store-cupboard  for  the 
next  half  hour,  and  we  want  to  know  what  you  mean  by  your 
ridculous  message, '  Trimmings,  not  Squails.'  Dulce  is  dying 
of  curiosity,  and  so  am  1." 

"  Yes;  but  she  looks  so  hot  and  tired  that  she  must  refresh 
herself  first."  And  Dulce  placed  on  her  sister's  lap  a  plate 
of  yellow  plums,  perfectly  bedded  in  moss,  which  had  come 
from  the  vicarage  garden.  And  as  Phillis  enjoyed  the  dainty 
repast,  and  poured  out  her  morning's  experiences  in  the  ears 
of  her  astonished  auditors,  lo!  the  humiliation  and  the  sting 
were  forgotten,  and  only  an  intense  sense  of  humor  of  the 
situation  remained. 

It  was  Dulce  whose  pink  cheeks  were  burning  now. 

"Oh,  Phillis!  how  could  you?  It  is  too  dreadful  even  to 
think  about!  That  fat  old  thing,  too!  Why,  she  is  twice  as 
big  as  Mrs.  Squails!" 

"  Beggars  can  not  be  choosers,  my  dear/'  replied  Phillis, 
airily;  for  rest  was  pleasant  and  the  fruit  was  good,  and  it 
was  so  delicious  to  feel  all  that  was  over  and  she  was  safe  in 
her  nest  again;  and  then  the  pleasure  of  talking  it  all  over! 
"Do  you  know — "  she  began,  in  a  disconnected  manner, 
and  then  sat  and  stared  at  her  sisters  with  luminous  gray 
eyes,  until  they  begged  to  know  what  the  new  idea  was. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied,  and  colored  a  little.  And  then 
she  blurted  out,  in  an  oddly  ashamed  way:  '*  It  was  talking  to 
you  two  dears  that  put  it  in  my  head.  But  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  moment  that  if  one  is  ever  good  enough  to  get; 
to  heaven,  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  will  be  to  talk  about 
all  our  past  miseries  and  ditticuities,  and  how  the  angels  helped 
as;  and,  though  you  may  laugh  at  me  " — they  were  doing 
nothing  of  the  kind,  only  admirmg  her  with  all  their  might— 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  185 

"  I  have  a  kind  of  fancy  that  evsn  my  '  TrimmlDgs,  not 
Squails,'  episode  may  have  a  different  looii  up  there." 

"  Mv  dear,"  returned  Nan,  gently,  for  she  loved  all  speeches 
of  this  sort,  being  a  devout  little  soul  and  truly  pious,  "  noth- 
ing was  further  from  my  thoughts  than  to  laugh  at  you,  for 
the  more  we  think  in  lliis  way  the  grander  our  work  will  ap- 
pear to  us.  Mrs.  Trimuiiijgs  may  be  fat  and  vulgar,  but 
when  you  were  measuring  her  and  answering  her  so  prettily — 
and  I  Jiiiow  how  nicely  you  would  speak,  Phil — I  think  you 
were  as  brave  as  one  of  those  old  kmghts — 1  can  not  remem- 
ber their  names — who  set  out  on  some  lofty  quest  or  other." 

"  I  suppose  the  child  means  Sir  Galahad,"  observed  Phillis, 
with  a  groan  at  Kan's  ignorance.  "  Oh,  Nannie,  I  wish  1 
could  say: 

"  '  My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
I3ecause  my  heart  is  pure;'  " 

and  then  she  softly  chanted — for  quotation  never  came  amiss 
to  her,  and  her  head  was  crammed  with  choice  selections  from 
the  poets, 

"  '  All  armed  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 
Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail.'  " 

"  Yes,  the  Sangreal,  or  the  (^uest.  It  does  not  matter  what, 
for  it  was  only  an  allegory,"  returned  Nan,  who  had  plenty  of 
ideas,  only  she  confused  them  sometimes,  and  was  noi  as  clever 
in  her  definitions  as  Phillis.  "  It  only  meant  that  those  grand 
old  knights  had  some  holy  purpose  and  aim  in  their  lives,  for 
•which  they  trained  and  toiled  and  fought.  Don't  you  see? 
the  meaning  is  quite  clear.     We  can  have  our  Quest,  too." 

"  Bless  her  dear  heart,  if  she  is  not  traveling  thousands  of 
years  and  miles  from  Mrs.  Trimmings!"  exclaimed  Phillis, 
who  never  could  be  serious  long.  "  Well,  Nannie,  1  under- 
stand you,  though  you  are  a  trifle  vague.  We  will  have  our 
Quest  and  our  unattainable  standard,  and  I  will  be  your  maiden 
knight — yours  and  Dulce's. 

"  '  How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 
On  whom  their  favors  fall!  . 
For  them  I'll  battle  till  the  end, 
To  save  from  shame  and  thrall.'  " 

And  when  she  had  repeated  this  she  rose,  laughing,  and 
said  they  were  all  a  little  demented;  and  what  did  they  mean 
by  wasting  their  time  when  there  were  three  dresses  to  be  cuf^ 
GUI?  and  Dulce  must  have  the  work  fixed  for  the  sewing- 
machine. 

For  the  next  hour  there  was  little  talk^  only  the  snipping 


186  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

sound  of  scissors  and  the  rustling  of  silken  breadths,  and  some- 
times the  swish  and  the  tearing  of  sundry  materials,  and  then 
the  whirring  and  burring  and  tappings  of  Dulce's  sewing-ma- 
chine, like  a  dozen  or  two  of  woodpeckers  at  work  on  an  iron- 
tree.  And  no  one  quoted  any  more  poetry,  for  prose  was 
heaped  up  everywhere  about  them,  and  their  heads  were  full 
of  business. 

But  in  the  afternoon,  when  things  were  in  progress  and 
looked  promising,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  had  had  her  nap,  and 
was  busy  over  some  sleeves  that  they  had  given  her  to  keep 
her  quiet  and  satisfy  her  maternal  conscience  that  she  was 
helping  her  girls,  Phillis  did  hear  a  little  about  Miss  Drum- 
mond's  visit.  The  sewing-machine,  which  they  worked  by 
turns,  had  stopped  for  a  time,  and  they  were  all  three  round 
the  table,  sewing  and  fixing  as  busily  as  possible,  and  Phillis, 
remembering  Sir  Galahad,  dared  not  say  she  was  tired,  only 
she  looked  out  on  the  lengthening  shadows  with  delight,  and 
thought  about  tea  and  an  evening  walk  just  to  stretch  her 
cramped  muscles.  And  if  one  day  seemed  so  long,  how  would 
a  week  of  days  appear  before  the  blessed  Sunday  gave  them  a 
few  hours  of  freedom? 

It  was  at  this  moment,  that  Nan,  with  fine  tact,  broke  the 
silence  that  was  good  for  work,  but  was  apt  to  wax  drowsy  in 
time: 

*'  Miss  Milner's  dress  is  getting  on  well.  How  fast  you  two 
girls  work!  and  mammie  is  doing  the  sleeves  beautifully.  An- 
other afternoon  you  must  let  the  work  rest,  mammie,  and  read 
to  us,  or  Phillis  will  get  restive.  By  the  bye,  Dulce,  we  have 
not  told  her  a  word  about  Miss  Drummond's  visit. ^^ 

"  No,  indeed.  Was  it  not  good  of  her  to  come  so  soon?'*  ex- 
claimed Dulce.  "  She  told  us  she  wanted  to  be  our  first  cus- 
tomer, and  seemed  quite  disappointed  when  we  said  that  we 
were  bound  in  honor  and  mere  giatitude  to  send  Miss  Milner's 
dress  home  first.  'Not  that  lam  in  a  hurry  for  my  dress, 
for  nobody  cares  what  I  wear,'  she  said,  quite  cheerfully;  '  but 
I  wanted  to  be  the  first  on  your  list.'  I  wish  we  could  oblige 
her,  for  she  is  a  nice,  unaffected  little  thing,  and  1  am  begin- 
ning to  like  her,  though  she  is  a  little  fussy." 

"  But  she  was  as  meek  as  a  lamb  about  her  dress,"  added 
Nan,  who  was  a  first-rate  needle-woman,  and  could  work 
rapidly  while  she  talked.  "Just  fancy,  Phil!  she  wanted  to 
have  a  jacket  with  tabs  and  loose  sleeves,  just  for  comfort  and 
coolness," 

"  Loose  sleeves  and  a  jacket!"  almost  gasped  Phillis,  for 
the  princess  skirts  were  then  worn,  and  Jackets  were  consigned 


i?6T    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS,  l8^ 

to  oblivion  for  the  time  being.  "  I  hope  you  told  her,  Nan, 
that  we  had  never  worked  for  Mrs.  Noah,  neither  had  Mrs. 
Shem  ever  honored  us  by  her  custom?" 

"  Well,  no,  Phillis;  I  was  not  quite  so  impertinent,  and 
clever  speeches  of  that  sort  never  occur  to  me  until  you  say 
them.  But  I  told  Miss  Drummond  that  1  could  not  consent 
to  spoil  her  lovely  dress  in  that  way;  and  then  she  laughed  and 
gave  in,  and  owned  she  knew  nothing  about  fashions,  and  ihat 
her  sister  Grace  always  ordered  her  clothes  for  her,  because 
she  chose  such  ugly  things.  She  sat  and  chatted  for  such  a 
long  time  with  us;  she  had  only  just  gone  when  you  came 
home." 

"  And  she  told  us  such  a  lot  about  this  wonderful  Grace," 
went  on  Dulce;  "  she  says  Archie  quite  worships  her.  Well, 
mammie,"  as  Mrs.  Challoner  poised  her  needle  in  midair  and 
regarded  her  youngest  daughter  with  unfeigned  astonishment, 
"1  am  only  repeating  Miss  Drummond's  words;  she  said 
*  Archie.'" 

"  But,  my  dear,  there  was  no  need  to  be  so  literal,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Challoner,  reprovingly;  for  she  was  a  gentle- 
woman of  the  old  school,  and  notliing  grieved  her  more  than 
slipshod  English  or  any  idiom  or  idiocy  of  modern  parlance 
in  the  mouths  of  her  bright  young  daughters.  To  speak  of  any 
young  man,  except  Dick,  without  the  ceremonious  prefix  was  a 
heinous  misdemeanor  in  her  eyes.  Dulce  would  occasionally 
trespass,  and  was  always  rebuked  with  much  gravity.  "  You 
could  have  said  '  her  brother,'  could  you  not?" 

"  Oh,  mammie,  I  am  sure  Providence  intended  you  for  an 
old  maid,  and  you  have  not  fulfilled  your  destiny,"  retorted 
Dulce,  who  was  rarely  awed  by  her  mother's  solemnity.  "All 
this  fuss  because  I  said  '  Archie!'  Oh,  I  forgot,  that  name  is 
sacred:  the  Reverend  Archibald  Drummond  adores  his  sister 
Grace." 

_"  And  she  must  be  very  nice,"  returned  Mrs.  Challoner, 
with  an  indulgent  smde  at  her  pet,  Dulce.  "  I  am  sure,  from 
what  Miss  Drummond  told  us  this  morning,  that  she  must 
be  a  most  superior  person.  Why,  Phillis,  she  teaches  ail  her 
four  younger  sisters,  and  one  of  them  is  sixteen.  Miss  Drum- 
mond eays  she  is  never  out  of  the  school-ruom,  except  for  an 
hour  or  two  in  the  evening,  when  her  father  and  brothers 
come  home.  There  are  two  more  broihers,  1  think  she  said. 
Dear,  what  a  large  family!  and  Miss  Druxuaiond  hinted  that 
they  were  not  well  off." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  that  Grace,"  began  Phillis,  and 
then  she  shook  her  head  reflectively.     "  No,  depend  upon  it^, 


188  ^Ot    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

we  should  be  disappointed  in  her;  family  paragons  are  gener- 
ally odious  to  other  folk.  Most  likely  she  wears  spectacles, 
and  is  a  thin,  thread-papery  sort  of  person. " 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  is  a  sweet-looking  girl,  with  large, 
melancholy  eyes;  for  Miss  Drummond  showed  us  her  photo- 
graph. So  much  for  your  imagination,  Phil,"  and  Dulce 
looked  triumphant.  "  And  she  is  only  twenty-two,  and, 
though  not  pretty.  Just  the  sort  of  face  one  could  love.'' 

"  Some  people's  swans  turn  out  to  be  geese  in  the  end,"  re- 
marked Phillis,  provokingly;  but  she  registered  at  the  same 
time  a  mental  resolve  that  she  would  cross-examine  Mr.  Drum- 
mond on  the  earliest  opportunity  about  this  wonderful  sister 
of  his.  Oh,  it  was  no  marvel  if  he  did  look  down  on  them 
Fhen  they  had  not  got  brains  enough  to  earn  their  living  ex- 
cept in  this  way!  and  Phillis  stuck  her  needle  into  Miss  Mil- 
ner's  body-liuiug  so  viciously  that  it  broke. 

The  sharp  click  roused  Nan's  vigilance,  and  she  looked  up, 
and  was  at  once  full  of  pity  for  Phillis's  pale  face. 

"  You  are  tired,  Phil,  and  so  are  we  all,"  she  said,  brightly; 
*'  and,  as  it  is  our  first  day  of  work,  we  will  not  overdo  our- 
selves. Mammie,  if  you  will  make  the  tea,  we  will  just  tidy 
up,  and  look  out  the  patterns  for  you  to  match  the  trimmings 
and  buttons  to-morrow;"  for  this  same  business  of  matching 
was  rather  hailed  by  Mrs.  Challoner  as  a  relief  and  amuse- 
ment. 

Phillis  grumbled  a  little  over  this  additional  labor,  though, 
at  the  same  time,  no  one  worked  harder  than  she;  but  she 
was  careful  to  explain  that  it  was  her  riglit,  as  a  free-born 
Britoness,  to  grumble,  and  that  it  was  as  much  a  relief  to  her 
peculiar  constitution  as  a  good  long  yawn  is  to  some  people. 

"  And  it  answers  two  purposes,"  as  she  observed;  "  for  it 
airs  the  lungs  and  relieves  the  mind,  and  no  one  takes  any 
more  notice  than  if  1  set  the  wind  blowing.  And  thankful  1 
am,  and  every  mother's  child  of  us,  that  Dorothy  is  approach- 
ing this  room  with  her  dust-pan  and  brush.  Dorothy,  1  have 
a  nice  little  sum  for  you  to  do.  How  many  snippets  of  green 
and  black  silk  go  to  a  dust-pan?  Count  them,  and  subtract 
all  the  tacking-thread  and  Dulce's  pins." 

*'  Phillis,  you  are  just  feverish  from  overfatigue  and  sitting 
so  long  in  one  place,  for  you  are  used  to  running  about." 
And  Nan  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  marched  her  playfully 
to  the  small  parlor,  where  Mrs.  Challoner  was  waiting  for 
them. 

"  Come,  girls,"  she  said,  cheerfully.  "  Dorothy  has  baked 
your  favorite  little  cakes,  and  there  are  new-laid  eggs  for  those 


HOT    LIKE    OTH^R    GlitZh,  1§9 

who  are  hungry;  and  I  am  sure  you  have  all  earned  your  tea, 
darlings.  And,  oh,  Pliillis!  iiow  tired  you  look!"'  And  Mrs. 
Chul loner  looked  round  ou  each  face  in  turn,  in  the  unwise 
but  loving  way  of  mothers. 

This  was  too  mucli  fur  Phillis,  and  she  interlaced  her  fingers 
and  put  them  suddenly  and  sternly  over  her  mother's  eyes. 
■  "  Now,  aiammie,  promise." 

*' Phillis,  my  dear,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd!"  but  Mrs. 
Chal loner  strove  in  vain  to  release  herself.  Phillis's  fingers 
had  iron  tenacity  in  them  when  she  choie. 

"  A  thing  like  this  must  be  nipped  in  the  bud,"  pronounced 
Phillis,  apostrophizing  her  laughaig  sisters.  "  You  must  not 
look  at  us  in  that  fashion  every  evening,  as  though  we  were 
sheep  in  a  pen,  or  rabbits  for  sale.  You  will  be  weighing  us 
next,  and  my  nerves  will  not  stand  it.  No,  mother;  here  I 
strike.     I  will  not  be  looked  at  in  that  manner," 

"  But,  Phillis —     Qh,  you  nonsensical  child!" 

"  Personal  remarks  are  to  be  tabooed  from  this  moment. 
You  must  not  say,  '  How  tired  you  look!'  or  '  How  pale  you 
are!'  It  is  not  manners  at  the  Friary,  and  it  is  demoralizing. 
1  am  ten  times  more  tired  this  minute  than  I  was  before  you 
told  me  so. " 

"  Very  well,  Phillis;  but  you  must  let  me  pour  out  the 
tea."  And  then  Phillis  subsided.  But  she  had  started  the 
fun,  and  Dulce  soon  took  it  up  and  set  the  ball  rolling.  And 
Dorothy,  working  hard  with  her  dust-pan  and  brushes,  heard 
the  merriment,  and  her  old  face  lighted  up. 

"  Bless  their  sweet  faces — pretending  to  be  happy,  just  to 
cheer  up  the  mistress,  and  make  believe  it  is  only  a  game  they 
are  having!"  muttered  the  old  woman,  as  she  paused  to  listen. 
"  But,  if  1  am  not  mistaken.  Miss  Phillis,  poor  dear,  is 
just  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue.  Only  to  hear  her,  one  would 
think  she  was  as  perky  as  possible." 

When  the  evening  meal  was  over,  Mrs.  Challoner  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  and  made  a  little  speech  to  her  daughters: 

"  Thank  you,  my  dears.  You  have  done  me  so  much  good. 
Now,  if  you  want  to  please  me,  you  will  all  three  put  ou  your 
hats  and  take  a  nice  long  walk  together." 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other,  and  every  pair  of  eyes  said, 
as  plainly  as  possible,  "  What  a  delicious  idea!  But  only  two 
can  go,  and  1  intejid  to  be  the  filial  victim."  But  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner was  too  quick  for  them.  "  I  said  all  three,"  she  re- 
marked, very  decidedly.  "  If  one  offers  to  stay  with  me,  I 
shall  just  put  myself  to  bed  and  lock  the  door;  but  if  you  will 
be  good,  and  enjoy  this  lovely  evening,  I  will  -take  my  book 


i§0  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRtS. 

in  the  garden  and  be  quite  happy  until  you  come  back  to  me.** 
And  when  they  saw  that  she  meant  it,  and  would  only  be  wor- 
ried by  a  fuss,  they  went  off  as  obediently  as  possible. 

They  walked  very  sedately  down  the  Braid  wood  Road,  and 
past  the  White  [louse;  but  when  they  got  into  the  town,  Phil- 
lis  hurried  them  on  a  little.  "  1  don't  want  people.  It  is  air 
and  exercise  and  freedom  for  which  I  am  pining."  And  she 
walked  so  fast  that  they  had  some  trouble  to  keep  up  R'ith 
her. 

But  when  they  had  left  every  trace  of  human  habitation  be- 
hind Ihem,  and  were  strolling  down  the  rough,  uneven  beach, 
toward  a  narrow  strip  of  sand  that  would  soon  be  covered  by 
the  advancing  tide,  Pliillis  said,  in  an  odd,  breathless  way: 
"  Nan,  just  look  round  and  see  if  there  be  any  one  in  sight, 
before,  behind,  or  around  us;"  and  Nan,  though  in  some  lit- 
tle surprise,  did  at  once  as  she  was  bidden,  in  the  most  thor- 
ough manner.  For  she  looked  up  at  the  sky  first,  as  though 
she  were  afraid  of  balloons  or  possible  angels;  and  then  at  the 
sea,  which  she  scanned  narrowly,  so  that  not  even  a  fish  could 
escape  her;  and  after  that  she  beat  the  boundaries  of  the  land. 

"  No,  there  is  not  a  creature  in  sight  except  ourselves  and 
Laddie,"  she  answered. 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Phillis,  promptly.  "  Then,  if  it 
be  all  safe,  and  the  Hadleigh  wits  are  away  wool-gathering, 
and  you  will  not  tell  mother,  I  mean  to  have  a  race  with 
Dulce  as  far  as  we  can  run  along  the  shore;  and  if  1  do  not 
win — "  And  here  she  pursed  up  her  lips  and  left  her  sen- 
tence unfinished,  as  though  determined  to  be  provoking. 

"  We  shall  see  about  that,"  returned  Dulce,  accepting  the 
challenge  in  a  moment,  for  she  was  always  ready  to  follow  a 
good  lead. 

"Oh,  you  foolish  children!"  observed  Nan,  in  her  staid 
fashion.  But  she  did  not  otfer  the  slightest  remonstrance, 
knowing  of  old  that  unless  Phillis  found  some  safety-valve  she 
would  probably  wax  dangerous.  So  she  called  Laddie  to  her, 
and  held  him  whining  and  struggling,  for  he  wanted  to  stretch 
his  little  legs  too,  thinking  a  race  was  good  for  dogs  as  well 
as  for  girls.  But  Nan  would  not  hear  of  it  for  a  moment; 
he  might  trip  them  up  and  cause  another  sprained  ankle. 

"  Now,  Nan,  you  must  be  umpire,  and  say.  One,  two, 
three!"  And  Nan  again  obeys,  and  then  watches  them  with 
interest.  Oh,  how  pretty  it  was,  if  only  any  one  could  have 
seen  it,  except  the  crabs  and  star-fish,  and  they  never  take 
much  notice:  the  foreground  of  the  summer  sea  coming  up 
Vfith  little  purple  rushes  and  a  friuge  of  foam;  the  yellow 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  191 

sand,  jagged,  uneven,  with  salt-water  pools  here  and  there; 
the  two  girls  in  their  light  dresses  skimujing  over  the  ground 
with  swift  feet,  skirting  the  pools,  jumping  lightly  over  stones, 
even  climbing  a  break-water,  then  running  along  another  level 
piece  of  sand— Dulce  a  little  behind,  but  Phillis  as  erect  and 
sure-footed  as  Atalanta. 

Now  Nan  has  lost  them,  and  puts  Laddie  down  and  pre- 
pares to  follow.  In  spite  of  her  staidness,  she  would  have 
dearly  loved  a  run  too;  only  she  thinks  of  Dick,  aud  foibears. 

Duice,  who  is  out  of  breath,  fears  she  must  give  up  the  race, 
and  begins  to  pant  and  drop  behind  in  earnest,  and  to  wish 
salt  water  were  fresh,  and  then  to  dread  the  nest  break- 
water as  a  hopeless  obstacle;  but  Phillis,  who  is  still  as  fresh 
as  possible,  squares  her  elbows  as  she  has  seen  athletes  do, 
and  runs  lightly  up  to  it,  unmindful  and  blissfully  ignorr.nt  of 
human  eyes  behind  a  central  hole. 

Some  one  who  is  of  a  classical  turn  has  been  thinking  of  the 
daughter  of  lasus  and  Clymene,  and  cries  out,  "  Bravo,  Ata- 
lanta! But  where  is  Milanion,  that  he  has  forgotten  the  golden 
apples?"  And  Phillis,  stricken  dumb  by  the  question  and  the 
sudden  apparition  of  a  bearded  face  behind  the  break-water, 
remains  standing  as  though  she  were  carved  in  stone. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

"mothers   are   ilOTHERS." 

"  Mr.  Drummond!  Oh,  dear!  is  one  never  to  be  free  from 
pastoral  supervision?"  muttered  Phillis,  half  sulkily,  when  she 
roused  from  her  stupefaction  and  had  breath  to  take  the 
oSensive.  And  what  would  he  think  of  her?  But  that  was  a 
question  to  be  deferred  until  later,  when  nightmares  and  dark- 
ness and  troublesome  thoughts  harass  the  unwary  soul.  "  Like 
a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,"  she  might  have  said  to  herself, 
quoting  from  "  Locksley  Hall."  But  she  did  nothing  of  the 
kind— only  looked  at  the  offending  human  being  with  such  an 
outraged  dignity  in  her  bearing  that  Mr.  Drummond  nearly 
committed  himself  by  bursting  out  laughing. 

He  refrained  with   ditficulty,  and  said,  ralher  dryly: 

*'  That  was  a  good  race;  but  1  saw  you  would  win  from  the 
first,  and  you  jiim[)e(l  that  stone  splendidly.  1  suppose  you 
know  the  story  of  Aialanta?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  responded  Phillis,  gloomily;  but  she  could  not 
help  showing  off  her  knowledge,  all  the  same;  and  she  had  al- 
wa;^s  been  so  fond  of  heathen  mythology,  and  had  even  rea<i 


193  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

translations  of  Homer  and  Virgil.  "  She  had  a  she-bear 
foi"  a  nurse,  and  was  eventually  turned  into  a  lion;  and  I  al- 
ways thought  her  very  stupid  for  being  such  a  baby  and  stop- 
ping to  pick  up  the  golden  apple." 

"  Nevertheless,  the  subject  is  a  charming  one  for  a  picture," 
returned  Archie,  with  admirable  readiness,  for  he  saw  Phillis 
was  greatly  hurt  by  this  untoward  accident,  and  he  liked  the 
girl  all  the  better  for  her  spirit.  He  would  not  have  discovered 
himself  at  all,  only  in  another  moment  she  must  have  seen 
him;  and  if  she  would  only  have  believed  how  fully  he  en- 
tered into  the  fun,  and  how  graceful  and  harmless  he  thought 
it,  there  would  have  been  no  pang  of  wounded  self-esteem  left. 
But  girls,  especially  if  they  be  worthy  of  the  name,  are  so 
sensitive  and  prickly  on  such  matters. 

Dulce  had  basely  deserted  her  sister,  and,  at  the  sight  of  the 
clerical  felt  hat,  had  fled  to  Nan's  side  for  protection. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  Nan  had  said,  consoling  her;  "  it  is 
only  Mr.  Drummond.  And  he  will  know  how  it  was,  and  that 
we  thought  there  was  not  a  creature  in  sight."  Nevertheless, 
she  felt  a  little  sorry  in  her  heart  that  such  a  thing  had  hap- 
pened. It  would  spoil  Phillis's  mirth,  for  she  was  very  proud; 
and  it  might  shock  their  mother. 

"  Oh,  he  will  think  us  such  tom-boys  for  grown-up  young 
ladies!"  sighed  .Dulce,  who  was  only  just  grown  up. 

"  Never  mind  what  he  thinks,"  returned  Nan,  walking  fast, 
for  she  was  anxious  to  come  to  Phillis's  relief.  She  joined 
them  very  quietly,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Archie  as  though 
nothing  had  happened. 

"  Is  this  a  favorite  walk  of  yours,  Mr.  Drummond?  We 
thought  we  had  it  all  to  ourselves,  and  so  the  girls  had  a  rf.ce. 
They  will  be  dreadfully  troubled  at  having  a  spectator;  but  it 
might  be  worse,  for  you  already  know  us  well  enough  not  to 
misconstrue  a  little  bit  of  fun." 

"  I  am  glad  you  judge  me  so  truly,"  returned  Archie,  with 
a  gleam  of  pleasure  m  his  eyes.  Phillis  certainly  looked  un- 
commonly handsome  as  she  stood  there,  flushed  and  angry. 
But  how  sweet  and  cool  Nan  looked — not  a  hair  ruffled  nor  a 
fold  of  her  dress  out  of  order;  whereas  Dulce's  brown  locks 
were  all  loose  about  her  shoulders,  shaken  down  by  the  exer- 
cise. Nevertheless,  at  that  moment,  Phillis  looked  the  most 
striking. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  sudden  appearance  has  put  your  sister  out 
dreadfully.  I  assure  you  I  would  have  made  myself  into 
thin  air  if  I  could,"  went  on  Archie,  penitently;  "  but  all  the 
g»me,  it  was  impossible  not  to  applaud  the  winner.     I  felt  in- 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  193 

clined  to  wave  my  hat  in  the  air,  and  cry,  '  Bravo,  Alalanta!' 
half  a  dozen  limes.  You  made  such  pretty  running,  Miss 
Challoner;  aurl  1  v\'i^h  Grace  could  have  seen  it/' 

The  last  word  acted  like  magic  on  Phillis's  cloudy  brow. 
She  had  passed  over  two  delicately  implied  compliments  with 
a  little  scorn.  DiJ  he  think  her  like  other  girls,  to  be  mollified 
by  sugar-plums  and  sweet  speeches?  He  might  keep  all  that 
for  the  typical  young  lady  of  Hadleigh.  At  Oldfield  the  young 
men  knew  her  better. 

It  must  be  owned  that  the  youth  of  that  place  had  been 
slightly  in  awe  of  Pliillis.  One  or  two  had  even  hinted  that 
they  thought  her  strong-minded.  "  She  has  stand-off  ways, 
and  rather  laughs  at  a  fellow,  and  makes  one  feel  sometimes 
like  a  fool,"  they  said;  which  did  not  prove  much,  except  that 
Phillis  showed  herself  above  nonsense,  and  had  a  knowledge  of 
shams,  and  would  not  be  deceived,  and,  being  the  better  horse 
of  the  two,  showed  it;  and  no  man  likes  to  be  taken  down  in 
his  class. 

As  Phillis  would  not  flirt — not  understanding  the  art,  but 
Dulce  proved  herself  to  be  a  pretty  apt  pupd — they  left  o(f  try- 
ing to  make  her,  and  talked  sensibly  to  her  instead,  -^  hich  she 
liked  better.  But  though  more  than  one  had  aJmired  her,  no 
one  had  ventured  to  persuade  himself  or  her  that  he  was  in  love; 
but  for  that  there  was  plenty  of  time,  Phillis  not  being  the 
sort  of  girl  to  remain  long  without  a  lover. 

So  when  she  heard  Grace's  name  she  pricked  up  her  ears, 
and  the  proud  look  left  her  face;  and  she  said,  a  liitle  aichly, 
but  in  a  way  that  pleased  Mr.  Drummond: 

"  All  the  same,  1  am  glad  your  sister  was  not  here,  for  she 
would  think  J)ulce  and  me  such  tom-boys!"  using  DuIcq's 
very  expression. 

Archie  shook  his  head  very  decidedly  at  this. 

"  Ah!  you  do  not  know  Grace,  and  how  she  loves  a  bit  of 
fun;  only  she  never  gets  it,  p(  or  girl!"  sighmg  in  a  marked 
maimer,  for  he  saw  how  interested  Phillis  looked.  "  If  you 
could  only  hear  her  laugh.  But  please  sit  down  a  moment  and 
rest  yourselves,"  continued  the  artful  young  man,  who  had 
not  dared  to  propose  such  a  thing  before. 

Kaji  hesitated;  but  a  glance  at  Phillis's  hot  face  decided  her. 

"Just  for  five  minutes,"  she  said,  "  and  then  we  must  go 
back  to  mother;"  for  she  had  already  determined  that  they 
must  cut  their  walk  short  for  the  purpose  of  getting  rid  of 
Mr.  Drummond. 

And  they  sat  down  on  the  beach,  and  Dulce  retirerl  behind 
the  break-water  to  take  off  herbal  and  tuck  up  her  hair;  whilf 


194  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Archie,  taking  no  notice,  leaned  against  the  other  side,  and 
felt  well  contented  with  his  position — three  such  pretty  girls, 
and  all  the  world  well  away! 

'*  Is  Grace  your  favorite  sister?'*  asked  Phillis,  suddenly, 
as  she  menaced  Laddie  with  a  small  pebble. 

This  was  a  lucky  opening  for  Archie.  He  was  never  seen 
to  more  advantage  than  when  he  was  talking  about  Grace. 
There  was  no  constraint  or  consciousness  about  him  at  such 
times,  but  he  would  speak  with  a  simple  earnestness  that  marie 
people  say,  "  What  a  good  fellow  he  is!" 

"  Oh,  she  has  always  been  that,  you  know,"  he  said,  bright- 
ly, "  ever  since  she  was  a  little  thing,  and  I  used  to  carry  her 
about  in  my  arms,  and  string  horse-chestnuts  for  her,  when 
she  was  the  funniest,  merriest  little  creature,  and  so  clever. 
I  suppose  when  a  man  has  seven  sisters  he  may  be  allowed  to 
have  a  favorite  among  them?  and  there  is  not  one  of  them 
to  compare  with  Grace." 

"  Seven  sisters!"  repeated  Nan,  with  a  smile;  and  then  she 
added,  "  you  are  very  lucky,  Mr.  Drummond. " 

Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  this:  he  had  never  quite 
recognized  his  blessings  in  this  respect.  Isabel  and  Tottie 
might  be  tolerated,  but  he  could  easily  have  dispensed  with 
Susie  and  Laura  and  Clara;  he  had  a  knack  of  forgetting  their 
existence  when  he  was  absent  from  them,  and  when  he  was  at 
home  he  did  not  always  care  to  be  reminded  of  their  presence. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  very  exacting  to  their  wom- 
enkind,  who  resent  it  as  a  personal  injury  if  they  fail  in  good 
looks  or  are  not  pleasant  to  the  eye.  He  did  not  go  so  far  as 
to  say  to  himself  that  he  could  dispense  with  poor  Mattie,  too, 
but  he  certainly  acted  on  most  occasions  as  though  ho 
thought  soi 

"  Are  you  not  fond  of  all  your  sisters?"  asked  Phillis,  rather 
maliciously,  for  she  had  remarked  the  shrug. 

*'  Oh,  as  to  that,"  replied  the  young  man,  coloring  a  little, 
"  one  can  not  expect  to  be  interested  in  a  lot  of  school-girls. 
1  am  afraid  I  know  very  little  about  the  four  youngest,  except 
that  they  are  working  Grace  to  death.  Just  fancy.  Miss  Chal- 
Ioner!""he  continued,  addressing  Nan,  and  quite  disregarding 
Phillis's  sympathetic  looks.  "  Grace  has  actually  no  life  of  her 
own  at  all;  she  teaches  those  girls,  sits  with  them,  walks  with 
them,  helps  them  mend  their  clothes,  just  like  a  daily,  or 
rather,  a  nursery  governess,  except  that  she  is  not  paid  and 
has  no  holidays.  I  can  not  think  how  my  mother  can  find  it 
in  her  heart  to  work  her  so  hard!"  finished  Archie,  excited  tp 
wrath  at  the  remembrance  of  Grace's  wrongs. 


ifOt    LiKT:    OTHER    GIRLS.  ISS 

'*  Well,  do  you  know,"  returned  Xan,  thoughtfully,  as  he 
seemed  to  expect  an  atisw^er  to  this,  and  Phillis,  for  a  wonder, 
was  silent,  "  I  can  not  think  your  sister  an  object  of  pity. 
Think  what  a  good  and  useful  life  she  is  leading!  She  must 
be  a  perfect  treasure  to  her  mother,  and  I  dare  say  they  all 
love  her  dearly." 

"  The  girls  do,"  was  the  somewhat  grudging  response; 
"  they  follow  her  about  like  four  shadows,  and  even  Isabel 
can  do  nothing  without  her  advice.  When  1  am  home  I  can 
scarcely  get  her  for  a  moment  to  myself.  It  is  '  Grace,  come 
here,'  and  '  Grace,  please  do  this  for  me/  until  I  wonder  she 
is  not  worn  out." 

"  Oh,  how  happy  she  must  be!"  responded  Nan,  softly,  for 
to  her  no  lot  seemed  sweeter  than  this.  To  be  the  center  and 
support  of  a  large  family  circle — the  friend  and  trusted  con- 
fidante of  each!  What  a  wonderful  creature  this  Grace  must 
be!  and  how  could  he  speak  of  her  in  that  pitying  tone?  "  No 
life  of  her  own!"  Well,  what  life  could  she  want  better  than 
this?  To  be  the  guide  and  teacher  of  her  younger  sisters,  and 
to  be  loved  by  them  so  dearly!  "  Oh,  I  think  she  is  to  be  en- 
vied! her  life  must  be  so  full  of  interest,"  she  said,  addressing 
the  astonished  Archie,  who  had  certainly  never  taken  this 
view  of  it.  And  when  she  had  said  this  she  gave  a  slight  signal 
to  her  sisters,  which  they  understood  at  once;  and  then  they 
paced  s]o>vly  down  the  beach,  with  their  faces  toward  the  town, 
talking  as  they  went. 

They  did  not  walk  four  abreast,  as  they  used  to  do  in  the 
Oldfield  lanes;  but  Nan  led  the  way  with  Mr.  Drummond,  and 
Phillis  and  Dulce  dropped  behind. 

Archie  was  a  little  silent,  but  presently  he  said,  quite 
frankly,  as  though  he  had  known  her  for  years — but  from  the 
first  moment  he  had  felt  strangely  at  home  with  these  girls: 

"  Do  you  know  you  have  thrown  a  fresh  light  on  a  vexed 
subject?  I  have  been  worrying  myself  dreadfully  about  Grace. 
I  wanted  her  to  live  with  me  because  there  was  more  sympathy 
between  us  than  there  ever  will  be  between  my  sister  Mai  tie 
and  myself.  We  have  more  in  common,  and  think  the  game 
on  so  many  subjects,  and  I  knew  how  happy  1  could  have 
made  her." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  returned  Nan,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  in 
such  an  interested  way  that  he  found  no  difficulty  in  going  on: 

"  We  had  planned  for  years  to  live  together,  but  when  I  ac- 
cepted the  living,  and  the  question  was  mooted  in  the  family 
council,  my  mother  would  not  hear  of  it  for  a  moment.  Bhi 
said  Grace  could  not  possibly  be  spared." 


196  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Well,  I  s'i[)po?e  not,  after  what  you  have  told  me.  But 
it  must  havH  bc-eii  a  great  dit^appoiiilmeut  to  you  both/'  was 
!N ail's  judioious  reply. 

"  I  have  never  ceased  to  regret  ray  mother's  decision/'  he 
returned,  warmly;  "and  as  for  Grace,  I  fear  she  has  taken 
the  disappciiiitment  grievously  to  heart.'' 

"Oh,  I  hoiDe  not!" 

"  Ispbel  writes  to  my  sister  Mattie  that  Grace  is  looking 
thin  and  pale  and  has  lost  her  appetite,  and  she  thinks  the 
mother  is  getting  uneasy  about  her;  and  I  can  not  help  worry- 
ing myself  about  it,  and  thinking  how  all  this  might  have  been 
averted." 

"  1  think  you  are  wrong  in  that,"  was  the  unexpected  an- 
swer. "  When  one  has  acted  rightly,  to  the  very  best  of  one's 
power,  it  is  of  no  use  worrying  about  consequences." 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Archie,  very  much  surprised 
at  the  decided  tone  in  which  Nan  spoke.  He  had  thought  her 
too  soft  in  manner  to  possess  much  energy  and  determination 
of  character,  but  he  was  mistaken. 

"  It  would  be  far  worse  if  your  sister  had  not  recognized  her 
duty  and  refused  to  remain  at  home.  One  can  not  find  hap- 
piness if  one  moves  out  of  one's  allotted  niohe;  but  of  course 
you  know  all  this  better  than  I,  being  a  clergyman.  And,  oh, 
how  beautifully  j^ou  spoke  to  rrs  last  Sunday  I"  finished  Nan, 
remembering  all  at  once  that  she  was  usurping  his  place  and 
preaching  a  little  sermon  of  her  own. 

"Never  mind  that,"  he  replied,  impatiently;  "tell  me 
what  you  mean.  There  is  something  behind  your  speech;  you 
think  1  am  wrong  in  pitying  poor  Grace  so  much?" 

"  If  you  ask  me  so  plainly,  I  must  say  yes,  though  perhaps  I 
am  not  competent  to  judge;  but,  from  what  you  tell  me,  I 
think  you  ought  not  to  pity  her  at  all.  She  is  fulfilling  her 
destiny.  Is  she  not  doing  the  work  given  her  to  do?  and 
what  can  any  girl  want  more?  You  should  trust  your  mother, 
I  think,  Mr.  Drummond,  for  she  would  not  willingly  over- 
work her.  Mothers  are  mothers;  you  need  not  be  afraid," 
said  Nan,  looking  up  in  her  clear,  honest  way. 

"  Thank  you;  you  have  taken  a  weight  off  my  mind,"  re- 
turned Archie,  more  moved  by  this  than  he  cared  to  own- 
That  last  speech  had  gone  home;  he  must  trust  his  mother. 
In  a  moment  scales  seemed  to  fall  from  the  young  man's  eyes 
a3  he  walked  along  gravely  and  siknily  by  ISan.  "Why, 
what  manner  of  girls  cuild  these  be?"  he  thought;  "  frolic- 
Bome  ae  kittens,   and  yet  poosessnig   the   wiadum  of  mature 


KOT    LIKE    (■)THER    GIRLS.  197 

womaTihood. "     And  those  few  simple  words  of  Nan  abided 
long  with  him.  ^ 

What  if  he  and  Grace  were  making  a  mistake,  and  there 
was  no  hardship  in  her  case  at  all,  but  only  cbar  duty,  and  a 
most  high  privilege,  as  Nan  hinted?  What  if  his  mother 
were  right,  and  oul}'  they  were  wrong? 

The  idea  was  salutary,  but  hardly  pleasant:  for  he  had  cer 
tainly  aided  and  abetted  Grace  in  her  discontent,  and  had 
doubtless  increased  her  repinings  at  her  dull  surrouudiugs. 
Surely  Grace's  talents  had  been  given  her  for  a  purpose,  else 
why  was  she  so  much  cleverer  than  the  others — so  gifted  with 
womanly  accomplishments?  And  that  clear  head  of  hers — 
she  had  a  genius  for  teaching;  he  had  never  denied  that.  Was 
his  mother,  a  sensible,  large-sighted  woman  in  her  way,  to  be 
secretly  condemned  as  a  tyrant,  and  wanting  in  maternal  ten- 
derness for  Grace,  because  she  had  made  use  of  this  gifted 
daughter  for  the  good  of  her  other  children,  and  had  refused 
to  part  with  her  at  Archie's  request? 

Archie  began  to  feel  uncomfortable,  for  conscience  was 
waxing  warm  within  him;  and  there  had  been  a  grieved,  hurt 
tone  in  his  mother's  letters  of  late,  as  though  she  had  felt 
herself  neglected  by  him. 

"  Mothers  are  mothers;  you  need  not  be  afraid,'*  Nan  had 
said,  with  simple,  wholesome  faith  in  the  instincts  of  mother- 
hood; and  the  words  had  come  home  to  him  with  the  strong- 
est power. 

His  poor  harassed  mother — what  a  hard  life  hers  had  been? 
Archie  began  to  feel  his  heart  quite  tender  toward  her;  per- 
haps she  was  a  little  severe  and  exacting  with  the  girls,  but 
they  none  of  them  understood  her  in  the  least;  "  for  her  bark 
was  always  worse  than  her  bite,^'  thought  Archie;  and  girls, 
at  least  the  generality  of  them,  are  sometimes  aggravating. 

He  thought  of  the  weary  times  she  must  have  had  with  his 
father — for  Mr.  Drummond  could  make  himself  disagreeable 
to  his  wife  when  things  went  wrong  with  him;  and  the  sullen 
fortitude  with  which  he  bore  his  reversal  of  fortune  gave  small 
opening  to  her  tenderness.  The  very  way  in  which  he  shirked 
all  domestic  responsibilities,  leaving  on  her  shoulders  the  whole 
weight  of  the  domestic  machinery  and  all  the  home  manage- 
ment, had  hardened  and  itnbittered  her. 

A  large  family  and  small  means,  little  support  from  her  hus- 
band, who  interfered  less  and  less  with  domestic  matters — 
all  this  had  no  doubt  fostered  ihe  arbitary  will  that  governed 
the  Drummond  household.  If  her  husband  had  only  kept  her 
in  check — if  he  had  supported  her  authority,  and  not  left  her 


198  KOT    LtKl    0'rHi:R    GiRL§. 

to  stand  alone — she  would  have  been,  not  a  better  woman,  for 
Archie  knew  his  mother  was  good,  but  she  would  have  been 
softer  and  more  lovable,  and  her  children  would,  have  seen 
deeper  into  her  heart, 

Some  such  thoughts  as  these  passed  through  Archie's  mind 
as  he  walked  beside  Nan,  but  he  worked  them  out  more  care- 
fully when  he  was  alone  that  night.  Just  before  they  reached 
the  Friary,  he  had  started  another  subject;  for,  turning  to 
Phillis  and  Dulce,  whom  he  had  hitherto  ignored,  he  asked 
them  whether  he  might  enroll  one  or  all  of  them  among  his 
Sunday-school  teachers, 

Phillis's  eyes  sparkled  at  this. 

"  Oh,  Nan,  how  delightful!  it  will  remind  us  of  Oldfield." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  chimed  in  Dulce,  who  had  left  her  infant 
class  with  regret;  but,  to  their  surprise.  Nan  demurred. 

*'  At  Oldfield^  things  were  very  different,'*  she  said,  decid- 
edly; "  we  played  all  the  week,  and  it  was  no  hardship  to  teach 
the  dear  children  on  Sunday;  but  now  we  shall  have  to  work 
so  hard  that  we  shall  be  glad  of  one  day's  rest.'* 

"  But  surely  you  might  spare  us  one  hour  or  two  in  the 
afternoon?"  returned  Archie,  putting  on  what  Grace  called 
"  his  clerical  face." 

"  In  the  afternoons  mother  will  be  glad  of  our  company, 
and  sometimes  we  shall  indulge  in  a  walk.  No,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond,  our  week-days  are  too  full  of  work,  and  we  shall  need 
all  the  rest  we  can  get  on  Sunday."  And,  with  a  smile.  Nan 
dismissed  the  subject, 

Phillis  spoke  regretfully  of  it  when  he  had  left  them. 

"  It  would  have  been  so  nice,"  she  pleaded;  but  Nan  was 
inexorable. 

"  You  can  go  if  you  like,  Phil;  but  I  think  mother  is  en- 
titled to  that  one  afternoon  in  the  week,  and  I  will  not  con- 
sent to  any  parish  work  on  that  account;  and  then  I  am  sure 
we  shall  often  be  so  tired, "  And  Nan's  good  sense,  as  usual, 
carried  the  daj'. 

After  that  they  all  grouped  round  the  window  in  the  little 
parlor,  and  repeated  to  their  mother  every  word  of  their  con- 
versation wilh  Mr,  Drummond. 

Mrs.  Challouer  grew  alarmed  and  tearful  in  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  my  darlings,  promise  me  to  be  more  careful  for  the 
future!"  she  pleaded,  "Of  course,  it  was  only  fun,  Phillis, 
and  he  will  not  think  anything  of  it.  Still,  in  a  strange  place, 
where  no  one  knows  you—" 

"  Duicij  and  i  will  never  run  a  race  again;  I  think  I  can 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  19£ 

promise  you  that,"  replied  Phillis,  very  grimly,  who  felt  that 
"  Bravo,  Ataluuta!"  would  hauut  her  iu  her  dreams. 

"  And — aud  1  would  not  walk  about  with  Mr.  Drnmmond, 
though  he  is  our  clergyman  and  a  very  gentlemanly  person. 
People  might  talk;  and  in  your  position,  my  poor  dears — " 
Mrs.  Challouer  hesitated,  for  she  was  very  nice  in  her  scruples, 
and  nol  for  worlds  would  she  have  hinted  to  her  daughters  that 
Mr.  Drummond  was  young  and  unmarried,  and  a  very  hand- 
some man  iu  the  bargain.  "  You  see,  I  can  not  always  be  with 
you,  and  as  you  have  to  work  for  your  living,  and  can  not  be 
guarded  like  other  girls,  you  have  all  the  more  need  to  be  cir- 
cumspect.    Youdou't  think  me  overstrict,  do  you,  darlings?" 

"  No,  dear  mother,  you  are  perfectly  right,'^  returned  i\an, 
kissing  her.  "  I  knew  how  you  would  feel,  and  so  we  came 
home  directly  to  get  rid  of  him.  It  would  never  do  for  the 
vicar  of  the  parish  to  be  seen  walking  about  with  dress- 
makers. " 

"  Don't,  Nan!''  exclaimed  Phillis,  with  a  shudder.  Nev- 
ertheless, as  she  turned  away  she  remembered  how  she  had 
enjoyed  that  walk  down  the  Braidwood  Koad  that  very  morn- 
ing, when  he  offered  to  carry  home  Mrs.  Trimmings's  dress 
and  she  would  not  let  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

maitie's  new  dress. 

The  remainder  of  the  week  passed  harmlessly  and  without 
any  special  event  to  mark  it,  and,  thanks  to  Nan's  skillful 
management  and  Phillis's  pride,  there  were  no  further  contre- 
temps to  shock  Mrs.  Challoner's  sense  of  propriety.  The 
work  progressed  with  astonishing  rapidity;  in  the  mornings  the 
young  dress-makers  were  sufficiently  brisk  and  full  of  zeaJ, 
and  in  the  afternoons,  when  their  energies  flagged  aud  their 
fingers  grew  weary,  Dulce  would  sing  over  her  task,  or  Mrs. 
Challoner  would  read  to  them  for  the  hour  together;  but, 
notwithstanding  the  interest  of  the  tale,  there  was  always  great 
alacrity  manifested  when  the  tea-bell  gave  them  the  excuse  for 
putting  away  their  work. 

One  or  two  evenings  they  gardened,  and  Mrs.  Challoner  sat 
under  the  mulberry-tree  and  watched  them;  on  another  occa- 
sion they  took  a  long  country  walk,  and  lost  themselves,  and 
came  back  merry  and  tired,  and  laden  with  primrose  roots 
and  ferns.  They  had  met  no  one,  except  a  stray  laborer— had 
Been  glow-worms,  picked  wild  flowers,  and  declared  themselves 


200  NOT    LTKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

mightily  refreshed.    One  evening  Philh's,  who  was  not  to  be  re- 
pressed, contrived  a  new  amnseoient. 

"  Life  is  either  a  mill-pond  or  a  whirlpool/'  she  said,  rather 
sententiously.  "  We  have  been  stagnant  for  three  days,  and  1 
begin  to  feel  flat.  Races  are  tabooed;  besides,  we  can  not  al- 
ways leave' mother  alone.  I  propose  we  go  out  in  the  garden 
and  have  a  game  of  battledoor  and  shuttlecock;"  for  this 
had  been  a  winter  pastime  with  them  at  the  cottage. 

Nan,  who  was  always  rather  sober-minded  now,  demurred 
to  this.  She  would  have  preferred  gardening  a  little,  or  sit- 
ting quietly  with  her  mother  under  the  mulberry-tree:  but 
Phillis,  who  was  in  a  wild  mood,  overruled  all  her  objections, 
and  by  and  by  the  battle  began,  and  the  shuttlecocks  flew 
through  the  air. 

The  week's  work  was  finished,  and  the  three  dresses  lay  in 
their  wrappers,  waiting  for  Dorothy  to  convey  them  to  their 
several  owners.  Nan,  who  was  really  an  artiste  at  heart,  had 
called  her  mother  proudly  into  the  room  to  admire  the  result 
of  their  labors.  Mrs.  Challoner  was  far  too  accustomed  to  her 
daughters'  skillfulness  to  testify  any  surprise,  but  she  at  once 
pronounced  Miss  Drummond's  dress  the  chef-d'cBuvre.  Nan's 
taste  was  faultless,  and  the  trimmings  she  had  selected 
harmonized  so  well  with  the  soft  tints  of  the  silks. 

"  They  are  all  very  nice,  and  Mrs.  Trimmings  will  be 
charmed  with  her  blue  silk,*'  observed  Mrs.  Challoner,  trying 
to  throv\r  a  little  interest  into  her  voice  and  to  suppress  a  sigh; 
and  then  she  helped  Nan  to  adjust  the  wrappers,  and  to  pin 
the  neatly  written  bills  inside  each. 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  business-like,''  said  Nan,  with  a  satis- 
fied nod,  for  she  never  could  do  anything  by  halves;  and  she 
was  so  interested  in  her  work  that  she  would  have  been  heart- 
broken if  she  thought  one  of  the  dresses  would  be  a  misfit;  and 
then  it  was  that  Phillis,  who  had  been  watching  her  very 
closely,  brightened  up  and  proposed  a  game. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  sight,  the  mother  thought,  as  she  fol- 
lowed her  girls'  movements;  the  young  figures  swayed  so  grace- 
fully as  they  skimmed  hither  and  thither  over  the  lawn  with 
light,  butterfly  movements,  the  three  eager  faces  upturned  in 
the  evening  light,  their  heads.held  well  back. 

"  Two  hundred,  two  huudrtd  and  one,  two  hundred  and 
two — don't  let  it  drop,  Dulce!"  panted  Phillis,  breathlessly. 

"  Oh,  my  darlings,  don't  tire  yourselves!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Challoner,  as  her  eyes  followed  the  white  flutter  of  the  shut- 
tlecocks. 

This  was  the  picture  that  Mr.  Drummond  surveyed.     Dor* 


irOT    tiKT?    OTHER    GIRLS.  201 

otliy,  who  was  just  starting  on  her  round,  and  was  in  no  mood 
for  her  errand,  had  admitted  him  somevviiat  churliahly. 

"  Yes,  the  mistress  and  the  young  ladies  were  in;  and 
would  he  step  into  the  parlor,  as  her  hands  were  full?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  1  know  the  way,"  Mr.  Drnmmond  had  returned, 
quite  undaunted  by  the  old  woman's  sour  looks. 

But  the  parlor  was  empty,  save  for  Laddie,  who  had  been 
shut  up  there  noc  to  gpoil  the  sport,  and  who  was  whining 
most  piteously  to  be  let  out.  Ho  saluted  Archie  with  a  joyous 
bark,  and  commenced  licking  his  boots  and  wagging  his  tail 
with  mute  petition  to  be  released  from  this  durance  vile. 

Archie  patted  and  fondled  him,  for  he  was  good  to  all  dumb 
creatures. 

"  Poor  little  fellow!  I  wonder  why  they  have  shut  you  up 
here?"  he  said;  and  then  he  took  him  up  in  his  arms,  and 
stepped  to  the  window  to  reconnoiter. 

And  then  he  stood  and  looked,  perfectly  fascinated  by  the 
novel  sight.  His  sisters  played  baitledoor  and  shuttlecock  in 
the  school-room  sometimes,  or  out  in  the  passages  on  a  win- 
ter's afternoon.  He  had  once  caught  Susie  and  Clara  at  it, 
and  had  laughed  at  them  in  no  measured  terms  for  indulging 
in  such  a  babyish  game.  "1  should  have  thought  Dottie 
might  have  played  at  that,"  he  had  said,  rather  contemptu- 
ously. '*  I  suppose  you  indulge  in  skipping-rope  sometimes.'* 
And  the  poor  girls  had  paused  in  their  game,  feeling  ashamed 
of  themselves,  Archie  would  think  them  such  hoidens. 

He  remembered  his  reprimand  wiih  a  strange  feeling  of 
compunction,  as  he  stor.d  by  the  window  trying  vainly  to  elude 
Laddie's  caresses.  VVhat  a  shame  of  him  to  have  spoiled  those 
poor  children's  game  with  his  sneer,  when  they  had  so  little 
fun  in  their  lives;  and  yet,  as  he  recalled  Clara's  clumsy  gest- 
ures and  Susie's  sJiort-sighted  attempts,  he  was  obliged  to 
confess  that  battledoor  nnd  shuttlecock  wore  a  different  aspect 
now.  Could  anything  surpass  Phillis's  swift-handed  move- 
ments, brisk,  graceful,  alert,  or  Nan's  attitude  as  she  sustained 
the  duel?  Dulce,  who  seemed  dodging  in  between  them  in  a 
most  eccentric  way,  had  her  hair  loose,  as  usual,  curling  in 
brown  lengths  about  her  shoulders.  She  held  it  with  one 
hand,  as  she  poised  her  battledoor  with  the  other.  This  time 
Archie  th  uight  of  Nausicaa  and  her  maidens  tossing  the  ball 
beside  the  river,  after  washing  the  wedding  garments.  Was 
it  in  this  way  the  young  dress-makers  disported  themselves 
during  the  evenings? 

It  was  Phillis  who  first  discovered  the  intruder.  The  shut- 
tlecocks had  become  entangled,  and  had  fallen  to  the  ground. 


202  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

As  she  stooped  to  pick  them  up,  her  quick  eyes  detected  a 
coat-sleeve  at  the  window;  aud  an  iudefiiiable  iustiuct,  for  she 
could  not  see  his  face,  made  her  call  out: 

"  Mother,  Mr.  Diummoiid  is  in  the  parlor.  Do  go  to  him, 
while  Dulce  puts  up  her  hair.''  Aud  then  she  said,  severely: 
"  I  always  tell  you  jiot  to  wear  your  hair  like  that,  Duloe. 
Look  at  Nan  and  me;  we  are  quite  unrufiBed;  but  yours  is  al- 
ways coming  down.  If  you  have  pretty  hair,  you  need  not  call 
people's  attention  to  it  in  this  way."  At  which  speech  Dulce 
tossed  her  head  and  ran  away,  too  much  offended  to  answer. 

"When  Archie  saw  Mrs.  Challoner  crossing  the  lawn  with  the 
gait  of  a  queen,  he  knew  he  was  discovered,  so  he  opened  the 
window  and  stepped  out  in  the  cookst  possit)le  way. 

"  I  seem  ahva\s  spoiling  sport,"  he  said,  with  a  mischiev- 
ous glance  at  Phillis,  which  she  received  with  outward  cool- 
ness and  an  inward  twinge.  "  Bravo,  Atalanta!"  sounded 
in  her  ears  again.  "  Your  maid  iuvited  me  in,  but  I  did  not 
care  to  distuib  you." 

"  1  am  glad  you  did  not  open  the  window  before,'*  returned 
Nan,  speaking  with  that  directness  and  fine  simplicity  that  al- 
ways put  things  to  right  at  once;  '*  it  would  have  startled  us 
before  we  got  to  the  five  hundred,  and  then  Phillis  would  have 
been  disappointed.  Mother,  shall  we  bring  out  some  more 
chairs  instead  of  going  into  the  parlor?  It  is  so  much  pleas- 
anter  out  here."  And  as  Mrs.  Challoner  assented,  they  were 
soon  comfortably  established  on  the  tiny  lawn;  and  Archie, 
very  much  at  his  ease,  and  feeling  himself  unaccountably 
happy,  proceeded  to  deliver  some  trifling  message  from  his 
sister,  that  was  his  ostensible  reason  for  his  intrusion. 

"  Why  does  she  not  deliver  her  messages  herself.^"  thought 
Phillis;  but  she  kept  this  remark  to  herself.  Only,  that  even- 
ing she  watched  liie  young  clergyman  a  little  closely,  as  though 
he  puzzled  her.  Phillis  was  the  man  of  the  family,  and  it 
was  she  who  a' ways  stood  upon  guard  if  Nan  or  Dulce  needed 
a  sentinel.  She  was  beginning  to  think  Mr.  Drummond  came 
very  often  to  see  them,  considering  their  short  acquaintance. 
If  it  were  Miss  Matiie,  now,  who  ran  in  and  out  with  little 
offerings  of  flowers  and  fruit  in  a  nice  neighborly  fashion! 
But  for  this  very  dignified  young  man  to  burden  hijnself  with 
these  slight  feminine  messages — a  question  about  new-laid 
eggs,  which  even  Nan  had  forgotten. 

Phillis  was  quite  glad  when  her  mother  said: 

"  You  onght  to  have  brought  your  sister,  Mr.  Drummond; 
ghe  must  be  so  dull  all  alone" — forgetting  all   about  the 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  203 

dress-making,  poor  soul!  but  Phillis  remembered  it  a  moment 
afterward,  with  a  rush  of  bitter  feeling. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  that  was  why  he  came  in  so  often,  be- 
cause he  was  so  sorry  for  them,  and  wished  to  help  them,  as 
he  said.  A  clergyman  has  more  privileges  than  other  men; 
perhaps  she  was  wrong  to  suspect  him.  He  might  not  wish 
his  sister  to  visit  them,  except  in  a  purely  business-like  way; 
but  with  him  it  was  different.  Most  likely  he  had  tea  with 
Mrs.  Trimmings  sometimes.  Just  to  show  he  was  not  proud; 
he  might  even  sit  and  chat  with  Mrs.  Squails,  and  not  feel 
compromised  in  the  least.  Oh,  yes!  how  stupid  she  was  to 
think  he  admired  Nan,  because  she  had  intercepted  a  certain 
glance!  That  was  her  mania,  thinking  every  one  must  be 
after  Nan.     Things  were  different  now. 

Of  course  he  would  be  their  only  link  with  civilized  society 
— the  only  cultivated  mind  with  which  they  could  hold  con- 
verse; and  here  Phillis  ceased  to  curl  her  lip,  and  her  gray 
eyes  took  a  somber  shade,  and  she  sighed  so  audibly  that 
Archie  broke  off  an  interesting  discussion  on  last  Commemo- 
ration, and  looked  at  her  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"  Oh,  yes!  we  were  there,"  returned  Nan,  innocently,  who 
loved  to  talk  of  those  dear  old  times;  "and  we  were  at  the 
fete  at  Oriel,  and  at  the  concert  at  Magdalen  also.  Ah!  do 
you  remember,  Dulce?"  And  then  she  faltered  a  little  and 
flushed — not  because  Mr.  Drummond  was  looking  at  her  so  in- 
tently, but  at  certain  thoughts  that  began  to  intrude  them- 
selves, which  intwined  themselves  with  the  moonlighted 
cloisters. 

"  I  was  to  have  been  there,  too,  only  at  the  last  moment  I 
was  prevented,"  replied  Archie;  but  his  tone  was  inexplicable 
to  the  girl,  it  was  at  once  so  regretful  and  awe-struck.  Good 
heavens!  If  he  had  met  them,  and  been  introduced  to  them 
in  proper  form!  They  had  mentioned  a  Mr.  Hamilton;  well, 
Hamilton  had  been  a  pupil  of  his;  -he  had  coached  him  during 
a  term.  "  You  know  Hamilton?"  he  had  said,  staring  at  her; 
and  then  he  wondered  what  Hamilton  would  say  if  he  came 
down  to  stay  with  him  next  vacation. 

These  reflections  made  him  rather  absent;  and  even  when 
he  took  his  leave,  which  was  not  until  the  falling  dews  and 
the  glimmer  of  a  late  dusk  drove  Mrs.  Challoner  into  the 
house,  these  thoughts  still  pursued  him.  Nothing  else  seemed 
to  have  taken  so  strong  a  hold  on  him  as  this. 

"  Good  heavens!"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself;  "  to  think 
that  the  merest  chance — just  the  incidental  business  of  a 
friend — prevented  me  from  occupying  my  old  rooms  during 


204  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Commemoration!  to  think  I  might  have  met  them  in  com- 
pany with  Hamilton  and  the  other  fellows!'* 

The  sudden  sense  of  disappointment,  of  something  lost  ir- 
remediably in  his  life,  of  wasted  opportunities,  of  denied  pleas- 
ure, came  over  the  young  man's  mind.  He  could  not  have 
danced  with  Nan  at  the  University  ball,  it  is  true;  clergymen, 
according  to  his  creed,  must  not  dance.  But  there  was  the 
fete  at  Oriel,  and  the  Magdalen  concert,  and  the  Long  Walk 
in  the  Christchurch  meadows,  and  doubtless  other  opportuni- 
ties. 

He  never  asked  himself  if  these  girls  would  have  interested 
him  so  much  if  he  had  met  them  first  in  ordinary  society; 
from  the  very  first  moment  they  had  attracted  him  strangely. 
Had  he  known  them  only  a  fortnight?  Good  heavens!  it  seemed 
months,  years,  a  life-time!  These  revolutions  of  mind  are  not 
to  be  measured  by  time.  It  had  come  to  this,  that  the  late 
fellow  of  Oriel,  so  aristocratic  in  his  tastes,  so  temperate  in  his 
likings,  had  entered  certain  devious  paths,  where  hidden  pit- 
falls and  thorny  inclosures  warn  the  unwary  traveler  of  un- 
known dangers,  and  in  which  he  was  walking,  not  blindfold, 
but  by  strongest  will  atid  intent,  led  by  impulse  like  a  mere 
boy,  and  not  daring  to  raise  his  eyes  to  the  future.  "  And 
what  Grace  would  have  said!"  And  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Archie  felt  that  in  this  case  he  could  not  ask  Grace's  ad- 
vice. He  was  loath  to  turn  in  at  his  own  gate,  but  Mattie 
was  standing  there  watching  for  him.  She  ran  out  into  the 
road  to  meet  him,  and  then  he  could  see  there  were  letters 
in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  dear,  Archie,  I  thought  you  were  never  coming 
home!"  she  exclaimed.  "  And  I  have  such  news  to  tell 
you!  There  is  a  letter  for  you  from  Grace,  and  mother  has 
written  to  me;  and  there  is  a  note  from  Isabel  inside,  and  she 
is  engaged — really  and  truly  engaged — to  Mr.  Ellis  Burton; 
and  the  wedding  is  to  be  in  six  weeks,  and  you  and  I  are  to 
go  down  to  it,  and — oh,  dear — "  Here  Mattie  broke  down, 
and  began  to  sob  with  excitement  and  pleasure  and  the  long- 
ing for  sympathy. 

"  Well,  well,  there  is  nothing  to  cry  about!"  returned 
Archie,  roughly;  and  then  his  manner  changed  and  softened 
in  spite  of  himself;  for,  after  all,  Isabel  was  his  sister  and  this 
was  the  first  wedding  in  the  family,  and  he  could  not  hear 
such  a  piece  of  news  unmoved.  "  Let  me  hear  all  about 
it,"  he  said;  and  then  he  took  poor  little  Mattie  into  the 
house,  and  gave  her  some  wine,  and  was  very  kind  to  her,  and 
listened  to  his  mother's  letter  and  Isabel's  gushing  eftusion 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  205 

without  a  single  sneer.  "  Puor  little  Belle,  she  does  seem 
very  happy!"  he  saiJ,  quite  affectionately,  as  he  turned  up  the 
lamp  still  more,  and  began  Grace's  letter. 

Mattie  sat  and  gazed  at  him  in  a  sort  ot  ecstasv,  bnt  she  did 
not  venture  to  ask  him  to  read  it  to  her.  How  nice  he  was 
to-night,  and  how  handsome  he  looked  I  there  never  was  such 
a  brother  as  Archie.  But  suddenly,  as  though  he  was  con- 
scious of  being  svatched,  he  sat  down  by  the  table  and  shaded 
his  face  with  his  hand. 

No,  Mattie  was  right  in  her  surmise:  he  would  uot  have 
cared  to  sliow  that  If  tier  to  any  one. 

The  first  sheet  was  all  about  Isabel.  "  Dear  little  Isabel 
has  just  left  me,"  wrote  Grace.  "  The  child  looks  so  pretty 
in  her  new  happiness,  you  would  hardly  know  her.  She  has 
just  been  showing  me  the  magnificent  hoop  of  diamonds  Ellis 
has  given  her.  She  says  we  must  all  call  him  Ellis  now. 
'  Chaciin  a  son  gout.'  Poor  Ellis  is  not  very  brilliant,  cer- 
tainly. 1  remember  we  used  to  call  him  clownish  and  uncul- 
tivated. But  he  has  a  good  heart,  and  he  is  really  very  fond 
of  Isabel;  and,  as  she  is  satisfied,  I  suppose  we  need  not  doubt 
the  wisdom  of  her  choice.  Mother  is  radiant,  and  makes  so 
much  of  the  little  bride-elect  that  she  declares  her  head  is 
quite  turned.  The  house  is  quite  topsy-turvy  with  the  excite- 
ment of  this  first  wedding  in  the  familv.  Isabel  is  very  young 
to  be  married,  and  I  tell  mother  six  weeks  is  far  too  short 
for  an  engagement;  but  it  seems  Ellis  will  not  listen  to  reason, 
and  he  has  talked  mother  over.  Perhaps  I  am  rather  fastid- 
ious, but,  if  I  were  Isabel,  1  should  hate  to  receive  my  trous- 
seau from  my  lover;  and  yet  Ellis  wants  his  mother  to  get 
everything  for  his  fiancee.  I  believe  there  is  to  be  a  sort  of 
compromise,  and  Mrs.  Burton  is  to  select  heaps  of  pretty 
things — dresses  and  mantles  and  Paris  bonnets.  They  are 
rolling  in  riches.  Ellis  has  taken  a  large  house  in  Sloane 
Square,  and  his  father  has  bought  Iwm  a  landau  and  a  splendid 
pair  of  horses;  everything — furniture,  plate,  and  ornaments — 
is  to  be  as  massive  and  expensive  as  possible.  If  I  were  Isabel 
I  should  feel  smothered  by  all  these  grand  things,  but  the  lit- 
tle lady  takes  it  all  quite  coolly. 

"  When  I  get  a  moment  to  myself  I  sit  down  and  say,  '  In 
six  weeks  I  shall  see  Archiel'  Oh,  my  darling!  this  is  almost 
too  good  news  to  be  true!  Only  six  weeks,  and  then  I  shall 
really  see  you!  Now,  do  you  know,  I  am  longing  for  a  good 
clearing-up  talk?  for  your  hitters  lately  have  not  satisfied  me 
at  all.  Perhaps  I  am  growing  fanciful,  but  I  can  not  help 
feeling  as  though  something  has  come  between  us.     The  cur- 


206  KOT    LIKR    OTHER    GIRLS. 

rent  of  sympathy  seems  turned  asiile,  souithow.  Xo,  do  not 
laugh,  or  put  me  off  with  a  jest,  for  1  am  reully  m  earnest; 
and,  but  for  fear  of  your  suol  iiiig  me,  I  bhouKl  own  to  being 
just  a  little  unbappy.  Forgive  me,  Areiiie,  if  I  vex  _\ou;  but 
tiiere  is  someihiiig;  I  am  thorougbly  convinced  of  ibat.  You 
have  some  new  interests  or  worry  tbat  you  are  keeping  from 
me.  Is  this  quite  in  accordance  vvitb  our  uhi  cini)[)iict,  deai.'* 
Who  are  these  Challouers  Mat  tie  mentions  in  her  leiters?  She 
told  me  a  strange  rigmarole  about  them  the  otber  day — tluit 
they  were  young  ladies  who  had  turned  dress- makers.  What 
an  eccentric  idea!  They  must  be  very  odd  young  ladies,  I 
should  think,  to  emancipate  themselves  so  completely  from 
all  conventionalities.  1  whh  lh>  y  had  not  established  them- 
selves at  Iladleigh  and  so  near  the  vicarage  Mattie  says  you 
are  so  kind  to  them.  Oh,  Aichie!  my  dear  brother!  do  be 
careful!  I  do  not  half  like  the  idea  of  these  girls;  they  sound 
rash  and  designing,  and  you  are  so  chivalrous  in  your  notions. 
VV^iv  not  let  Mattie  be  kind  to  them,  instead  of  you?  In  a 
parish  like  Hadleigh  you  need  to  be  careful.  Mother  is  call- 
ing me,  so  1  will  just  close  this  with  my  fondest  love. 

"Grace.'* 

Archie  threw  down  the  letter  with  a  frown.  For  the  first 
time  he  was  aimoyed  with  Grace. 

Nan  and  her  sisters  rash  and  designing!  *'  Odd  young 
ladies!^'  She  was  sorry  they  had  established  t'.emselves  at 
Hadleigh!  It  was  really  too  bad  of  Grace  to  condemn  them 
in  this  fashion.  But  of  course  it  must  be  Mattie's  fault;  she 
had  written  a  pack  of  nonsense,  exaggerating  things  as  much 
as  possible. 

Poor  Mattie  would  have  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  his  wrath, 
as  usual,  only,  as  he  turned  to  her  with  the  frown  black  on  his 
forehead,  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  her  dress.  Hitherto  the 
room  had  been  very  dimly  lighted;  but  now,  as  he  looked  at 
her  in  the  soft  lamp-light,  his  anger  vanished  in  amazement. 

"  Why,  Mattie,  what  have  you  done  to  yourself.^  We  are 
not  expecting  company  this  evening;  it  is  nearly  ten  o'clock." 

Mattie  blushed  and  laughed,  and  then  she  actually  bridled 
with  pleasure: 

"  Oh,  no,  Archie;  of  course  not.  I  oidy  put  on  my  new 
dress  just  to  see  how  it  would  tit;  and  then  I  thought  you  might 
like  to  see  it.  It  is  the  one  uncle  gave  me,  r.nd  is  it  not 
beautifully  made?  I  am  su  e  Mrs.  Oheyne's  dresses  never  fit 
better.  You  and  Grace  muy  say  what  you  like  about  the  Chal- 
loners,  but  if  thej  can  make  dresses  like  this,  it  would  be 


y  mt    LtKt:    OtHFjl    GIRLS.  ^09* 

tempting  Providence  not  to  use  such  a  talent,.aud  just  because 
they  were  too  iiiie  ladies  to  work/' 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  rigiit,  Mattie/'  returned  Archie,  in 
a  low  voice.  "  Turn  round  and  let  me  look  at  you,  girl.  Do 
you  mean  that  she — that  they  made  that?" 

Mattie  nodiied  as  she  slowly  pivoted  on  one  foot,  and  then 
revolved  like  the  figures  one  used  to  see  on  old-fashioned  bar- 
rel-organs; then,  as  she  stood  still,  she  panted  out  the  words: 

"  Is  it  not  just  lovely,  Archie?'^  for  m  all  the  thirty  years 
of  her  unassuming  life,  Mattie  had  never  had  such  a  dress,  so 
no  wonder  her  head  was  a  little  turned. 

"  Yes,  indeed;  I  like  it  excessively,'*  was  Archie's  com- 
ment; and  then  he  added,  with  the  delicious  frankness  com- 
mon to  brothers:  "  It  makes  you  look  quite  a  different  per- 
son, Mattie;  you  are  almost  nice  looking  to-night." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  dear!"  cried  poor  Mattie,  quite  moved 
by  this  compliment;  for  if  Archie  thought  her  almost  nice 
looking  he  must  be  pleased  with  her.  Indeed,  she  even  vent- 
ured to  raise  herself  on  tiptoe  and  kiss  him  in  gratitude, 
which  was  taking  a  great  liberty,  only  Archie  bore  it  for  once. 

"  She  really  looked  very  well,  poor  little  woman!"  thought 
Archie,  when  Mattie  had  at  last  CAhausted  her  raptures  and 
bidden  him  good-night.  "  She  would  not  be  half  so  bad  look- 
ing if  someone  would  take  her  in  hand  and  dress  her  properly. 
The  women  must  be  right,  after  all,  and  there  is  a  power  in 
dress.  Those  girls  do  nothing  by  halves,"  he  continued, 
walking  up  and  down  the  room.  "  1  would  not  have  believed 
they  had  made  it,  if  Mattie  had  not  told  me.  '  Rash  and  de- 
signing,' indeed!  just  because  they  are  not  like  other  girls — 
because  they  are  more  natural,  more  industrious,  more  coura- 
geous, more  religious,  in  fact."  And  then  the  young  clergy- 
man softly  quoted  to  himself  the  words  of  the  old  wise  king, 
words  that  Nan  and  her  sisters  had  ever  loved  and  sought  to 
practice:  '*  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy 
might." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  OH,   YOU  ARE   proud!" 

On  the  following  Monday  morning  Nan  said  in  rather  a 
curious  voice  to  Phillis: 

"  If  no  customers  call  to-day,  our  work-room  will  be  empty. 
1  wonder  what  we  shall  do  with  ourselves?" 

To  which  Phillis  replied,  without  a  moment's  hesitation: 

"  We  will  go  down  and  bathe,  and  Dulce  and  I  will  have  a 


208  itOT    LIKE   OTiiER    GlilLS. 

swiniming-uiatcl];  and  after  that  we  will  sit  on  the  beach  and 
quiz  tliB  people.  Most  likely  there  will  be  a  troupe  of  colored 
minstrels  on  the  Parade,  and  that  will  be  fun/' 

"  Oh,  I  hope  no  one  will  cotne!"  observed  Dulce,  overjoyed 
at  the  idea  of  a  holiday;  but,  seeing  Nan's  face  was  full  of 
rebuke  at  this  outburst  of  frivolity,  she  said  no  more. 

It  was  decided  at  last  that  they  should  wait  for  an  hour  or 
so  to  see  if  any  orders  arrived,  and  after  that  they  would  con- 
sider themselves  at  liberty  to  amuse  themselves  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  But,  alas  for  Dulce's  hopes!  long  before 
the  appointed  hour  had  expired,  the  gate-bell  rang,  and  Miss 
Druinmond  made  her  appearance  with  a  large  parcel,  which 
she  deposited  on  the  table  with  a  radiant  face. 

The  story  was  soon  told.  Her  silk  dress  was  such  a  success, 
and  dear  Archie  was  so  charmed  with  it — here  Mattie,  with  a 
blush,  deposited  a  neatly  sealed  package  in  Nan's  band — that 
he  had  actually  proposed  that  she  should  have  another  gown 
made  after  the  same  pattern  for  every-day  wear.  And  he  had 
taken  her  himself  directly  after  breakfast  down  to  Mordant's 
and  had  chosen  her  this  dress.  He  had  never  done  such  a 
thing  before,  even  for  Grace;  so  no  wonder  Mattie  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  delight. 

"  It  s  very  pretty,"  observed  Nan,  critically;  "  your  brother 
has  good  taste."  Which  speech  was  of  course  retailed  to 
Arcliie. 

Mattie  had  only  just  left  the  cottage  when  another  cus- 
tomer appeared  in  the  person  of  Miss  Middleton. 

Nan,  who  had  just  begun  her  cutting-out,  met  her  with  a 
pleased  glance  of  recognition,  and  then,  remembering  her  er- 
rand, bowed  rather  gravely.  But  Miss  Middleton,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  held  out  her  hand. 

She  had  not  been  able  to  make  up  her  mind  about  these 
girls.  Her  father's  shocked  sense  of  decorum,  and  her  old- 
fash  oned  gentlewoman's  ideas,  had  raised  certain  difficulties 
in  her  mind  which  she  had  found  it  hard  to  overcome. 
"  Recollect,  Elizabeth,  I  will  not  have  those  girls  brought  here," 
the  colonel  had  said  to  her  that  very  morning.  "  They 
may  be  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  I  have  changed  my  opin- 
ion of  them.  There's  poor  Drummoud;  now  mark  my 
words,  there  will  be  trouble  by  and  by  in  that  quarter."  For 
Colonel  Middleton  had  groaned  in  spirit  ever  since  the 
morningf  he  had  seen  the  young  vicar  walking  with  Phillis  down 
the  Biaidwood  Road,  when  she  was  carrying  Mrs.  Trim- 
mings's  dress.  Elizabeth  answf  red  this  gentle  jirotest  by  one 
of  her  gentle  smiles.     "  Very  well,  dear  father;  1  will  ask  no 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    G1RL8.  S09 

one  to  Brooklyn  against  your  wish,  you  may  be  sure  of  that; 
but  1  suppose  they  may  make  my  new  dress?  Mat  tie's  has 
been  such  a  success;  they  certainly  understand  their  business." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  select  your  own  dress-maker,  Eliza- 
beth,*'  returned  the  colonel,  with  a  frigid  wave  of  his  hand, 
for  he  had  not  got  over  his  di!<appoiutment  abuut  the  girls. 
'*  I  only  warn  you  because  you  are  very  quixotic  in  your  no- 
tions; but  we  must  take  the  world  as  we  find  it,  and  make  the 
best  of  it;  and  there  is  your  brother  coming  home  b}-  and  by. 
We  must  be  careful  for  Hammond's  sake."  And,  as  Eliza- 
beth's good  sense  owned  the  justice  of  her  father's  remark, 
there  was  nothing  more  said  on  the  subject. 

But  it  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  embarrassment  that 
Miss  Middleton  entered  the  cottage;  her  great  heart  was  yearn- 
ing over  these  girls,  whom  she  was  couipelled  to  keep  at  a 
distance.  True,  her  father  was  right,  Hammond  was  comuig 
home,  and  a  young  officer  of  seven-ana-twenty  was  not  to  be 
trusted  where  three  pretty  girls  were  concerned;  it  would 
never  do  to  invite  them  to  Brooklyn  or  to  make  too  mach  of 
them.  Miss  Middleton  had  ranged  herself  completely  on  her 
father's  side,  but  at  the  sight  of  Nan's  sweet  face  and  her 
grave  little  bow  she  forgot  all  her  prudent  resolutions,  and  her 
hand  was  held  out  as  though  to  an  equal. 

"  1  have  come  to  ask  you  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
make  me  a  dress,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  smile.  "  You 
have  succeeded  so  well  with  Miss  Drumuiond  that  I  can  not 
help  wishing  to  have  one  too."  And  when  she  had  said  (his 
she  looked  quietly  round  her,  and  surveyed  the  pretty  work- 
room, and  Dulce  sitting  at  the  sewing-machine,  and  lasily 
Phillis's  bright,  intelligent  face,  as  she  stood  by  the  table 
turning  over  some  fashion-books. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Challoner  entered  the  room  with  her 
little  work-basket,  and  placed  herself  at  the  other  window. 
Miss  Middleton  began  talking  to  her  at  once,  while  Nan  meas- 
ured and  pinned. 

"  1  don't  think  1  ever  spent  a  pleasanter  half  hour,"  she 
told  her  father  afterward.  "  Mattie  was  right  in  what  she 
said:  they  have  made  the  work-room  perfectly  lovely  with 
pictures  and  old  china;  and  nothing  could  be  nicer  than  their 
manners — so  simple  and  unassuming,  yet  with  a  touch  of  in- 
dependence too." 

"  And  the  old  lady?"  inquired  the  colonel,  maliciously,  for 
he  had  seen  Mrs.  Challoner  in  church,  and  knew  better  than  to 
apeak  of  her  so  disrespectfully. 
^  "Old  lady,  father!  why,  she  is  not  old  at  all.    She  is  au 


SIO  irOt    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLg. 

exceedingly  pleasing  person,  only  a  little  stately  in  her  man- 
ner; one  would  not  venture  to  take  a  liberty  with  her.  We 
had  such  a  nice  talk  while  the  eldest  daughter  was  fitting  me. 
Is  it  not  strange,  father,  dear,  that  they  know  the  Paines? 
and  Mrs.  Satoris  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  theirs.  I  think 
they  were  a  little  sorry  when  they  heard  we  knew  them  too, 
for'  the  second  girl  colored  up  so  when  I  said  Adelaide  was 
your  goddaughter.^' 

"  Humph!  we  will  have  Adelaide  down  here,  and  hear  all 
about  them,"  responded  her  father,  briskly. 

"  Well,  I  douH  know;  I  am  afraid  that  would  be  painful  to 
them,  under  their  changed  circumstances.  Just  as  we  were 
talking  about  Adelaide,  Miss  Mewlstone  came  in,  and  then 
they  were  so  busy  that  1  did  not  like  to  stay  any  longer.  Ah, 
there  is  Mr.  Drummond  coming  to  interrupt  us,  as  usual.*' 

And  then  the  colonel  retailed  all  this  for  Archie's  benefit. 
He  had  come  in  to  glean  a  crumb  of  intelligence,  if  he  could, 
about  the  Challoners'  movements,  and  the  colonel's  garrulity 
furnished  him  with  a  rich  harvest. 

Phillis  had  taken  Miss  Mewlstone  in  hand  at  once  in  the  in- 
tervals of  business;  she  had  inquired  casually  after  Mrs. 
Cheyne's  injured  ankle. 

"  It  is  going  on  well;  she  can  stand  now,"  returned  Miss 
Mewlstone.  "  The  confinement  has  been  very  trying  for  her, 
poor  thing,  and  she  looks  sadly  the  worse  for  it.  Don't  take 
out  those  pins,  my  dear;  what  is  the  good  of  taking  so  much 
pains  with  a  fat  old  thing  like  me  and  pricking  your  pretty 
fingers?  Well,  she  is  always  asking  me  if  I  have  seen  any  of 
you  when  1  come  home." 

"  Mrs.  Cheyne  asks  after  us!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  in  a  tone 
of  astonishment. 

"  Ah!  just  so.  She  has  not  forgotten  you.  Magdalene 
never  forgets  anyone  in  whom  she  takes  an  interest;  not  that 
she  likes  many  people,  poor  dear!  but  then  so  few  understand 
her.  They  will  not  believe  that  it  is  all  on  the  surface,  and 
that  there  is  a  good  heart  underneath." 

"  You  call  her  Magdalene,"  observed  Phillis,  rather  curi- 
ously, looking  up  into  Miss  Mewlstone's  placid  face. 

"  Ah!  just  so;  I  forgot.  You  see,  1  knew  her  as  a  child — 
oh,  such  a  wee  toddling  mite!  younger  than  dear  little  Janie. 
1  remember  her  as  tiiuugh  it  were  yesterday;  the  loveliest 
little  creature — prettier  even  than  Janie!" 

"  Was  Janie  the  child  who  died?" 

"Yes,  the  darling!  She  was  just  three  years  old;  a  per- 
fect angel  of  a  child!  and  Bertie  was  a  year  older.     Poor 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  211 

Magdalene!  it  is  no  wonder  she  is  as  she  is — no  husl>and  nnd 
no  children!  When  she  sent  for  me  I  came  ai  once,  though  1 
knew  how  it  would  be.'* 

"  You  knew  how  it  would  be?"  repeated  Philh's,  in  a  ques- 
tioning voice,  for  Miss  Mewlstone  bad  come  to  a  full  tidp  here. 
She  looked  a  little  confused  at  this  repetition  of  her  words. 

"Oh!  just  so — just  so.  Thank  you,  my  dear.  You  have 
done  that  beautifully,  I  am  sure.  Never  mind  what  an  old 
woman  says.  When  people  are  in  trouble  like  that  lliey  are 
often  ill  to  live  with.  Magdalene  has  her  moods;  so  have  we 
all,  my  dear,  though  you  are  too  young  to  know  lliat;  but  no 
one  understands  her  belter  than  her  old  Bath^licba;  thtit  is 
my  name,  and  a  funny  old  name  too,  is  it  not?"  coniinutd 
Miss  Mewlstone,  blinking  at  Phillis  wilh  her  little  blue  eyes. 
"  The  worst  of  having  such  a  natue  is  that  no  one  will  use  it; 
even  father  and  mother  called  me  Barby,  as  Magdalene  does 
sometimes  still." 

Bathsheba  Mewlstone!  Phillis's  lip  curled  with  suppressed 
amusement.  What  a  droll  old  thing  she  was!  and  yet  she 
liked  her,  somehow. 

"  If  she  takes  it  into  her  head  to  come  and  see  you,  you 
will  try  and  put  up  with  her  sharp  speeches?"  continued 
Miss  Mewlstone,  a  little  anxiously,  as  she  tied  on  her  bonnet. 
"  Mr.  Drummond  does  not  understand  her  at  all;  and  I  will 
not  deny  that  she  is  hard  on  the  poor  young  man,  and  makes 
fun  of  him  a  bit;  but,  bless  you,  it  is  only  her  way!  She  tor- 
ments herself  and  other  people,  just  because  time  will  not 
pass  quickly  enough  and  let  her  forget.  If  we  had  children 
ourselves  we  should  understand  it  better,  and  how  in  Eamah 
there  must  be  lamentation,"  finished  Miss  Mewlstone,  with  a 
vague  and  peculiar  reference  to  the  martyred  innocents  which 
was  rather  inexplicable  to  Phillis,  as  in  this  case  there  was 
certainly  no  Herod,  but  an  ordinary  visitation  of  Providence; 
but  then  she  did  not  know  that  Miss  Mewlstone  was  often  a 
little  vague. 

After  this  hint,  Phillis  was  not  greatly  surprised  when,  one 
morning,  a  pair  of  gray  ponies  stopped  before  the  Friary,  and 
Mrs.  Cheyne's  tall  figure  came  slowly  up  the  flagged  path. 

It  must  be  owned  that  Phillis's  first  feelings  were  not 
wholly  pleasurable.  Nan  had  gone  oat;  an  invalid  lady 
staying  at  Seaview  Cottage  had  sent  for  a  dress  m;tker  rather 
hurriedly,  and  Miss  Milner  had  of  course  recpmnu  nded  them. 
Nan  had  gone  at  once,  and,  as  Dulce  looked  pale,  she  had 
taken  her  with  her  for  a  walk.     They  might  not  be  back  foy 


212  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

another  hour;  and  a  tete-a-tete  with  Mrs.  Cheyne,  after  their 
last  iiitervieiv,  was  ratlier  foimidable. 

Dorothy  preceded  her  with  a  parcel,  which  she  deposited 
rather  g^igerly  on  the  table.  As  Mrs.  Cheyue  entered  the 
room  she  looked  at  Phillis  in  a  cool,  off-hand  manner. 

*'  1  am  come  on  business,"  she  said,  wiih  a  little  nod. 
*'  How  do  yon  do.  Miss  Challoner?  You  are  looking  rather 
pale,  I  think."  And  then  her  keen  gJance  traveled  round 
the  room. 

The  girl  flushed  a  little  over  this  abruptness,  but  she  did 
not  lose  her  courage. 

"  Is  this  the  dress?"  she  asked,  opening  the  parcel;  but 
her  fingers  would  tremble  a  little,  in  spite  of  lier  will.  And 
then,  as  the  rich  folds  of  the  black  brocade  came  into  view, 
she  asked,  in  a  business-like  tone,  in  what  style  Mrs.  Oheyne 
would  wish  it.  male,  and  how  soon  she  required  it.  To  all  of 
which  Mrs.  Cheyne  reyponded  in  the  same  dry,  curt  manner; 
and  then  the  usual  process  of  fitting  began. 

Never  luid  her  task  seemed  so  tedious  and  distasteful  to 
Phillis,  Even  Mrs.  Trimmings  was  preferable  to  this;  she 
hardly  ventured  to  raise  her  eyes,  for  fear  of  meeting  Mrs. 
Cheyne's  cold,  satirical  glance;  and  yet  all  the  time  she  knew 
she  was  being  watched.  Mrs.  Cheyne's  vigilant  silence  meant 
something. 

If  only  her  mother  would  come  in!  but  she  was  shelling 
pease  for  Dorothy.  To  think  Nan  sho.ild  have  failed  her  on 
such  an  occasion!  Even  L)ulce  would  have  been  a  comfort, 
though  she  was  so  easily  frightened.  She  started  almost  nerv- 
ously when  Mrs.  Cheyne  at  last  broke  the  silence: 

*'  Yes,  you  are  decidedly  paler — a  little  thinner,  I  think, 
and  that  after  only  a  fortnight's  work." 

Phillis  looked  up  a  little  indignantly  at  this,  but  she  found 
Mrs,  Cheyne  was  regarding  her  not  unkindly. 

"I  am  well  enough,''  she  returned,  rather  ungraciously; 
"  but  we  are  not  used  to  so  much  confinement,  and  the  weather 
is  hot.      We  shall  grow  accustomed  to  it  in  time." 

"  You  think  restlessness  is  so  easily  subdued?"  with  a  sneer. 

"  No,  but  I  believe  it  can  be  controlled,"  replied  [)oor 
Phillis,  who  suffered  more  than  any  one  guessed  from  this  re- 
straint on  her  sweet  freedom. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  was  right;  even  in  this  short  time  she  was 
certainly  paler  and  thinner. 

"  You  mean  to  persevere,  then,  in  your  moral  suicide?" 

"  We  mean  to  persevere  in  our  duty,"  corrected  Phillis,  as 
ehe  pinned  up  a  sleeve. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  213 

"  Father  a  high  moral  tone  for  a  dress-maker  to  take; 
don't  you  think  bo?"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne,  in  the  voice 
Archie  hated.  The  woman  certainly  had  a  double  nature; 
there  was  a  twist  in  her  sotuawhere. 

Tliis  was  too  much  for  Phillis;  she  fired  up  in  a  moment. 

"  Why  should  not  dress-makers  take  a  high  moral  tone? 
You  make  me  feel  glad  I  am  one  when  you  talk  like  tiiiit. 
Tills  is  our  ambition — Nan's  and  mine,  for  Dulce  is  too  young 
to  think  much  about  it — to  show  by  our  example  that  there  is 
no  degradation  in  work.  Oh,  it  is  hard!  First  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  comes,  and  talks  to  us  as  though  we  were  doing  wrong; 
and  then  you,  to  cry  down  nur  honest  labor,  and  call  it 
suicide!  Is  it  suicide  to  work  wiHi  these  hands,  that  God  lias 
maile  clever,  for  my  mother?"  cried  Phillis,  and  her  great 
gray  eyes  filled  up  with  sudden  tears. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  did  not  look  displeased  at  the  girl's  outburst. 
If  she  had  led  up  to  this  point,  she  could  not  have  received  it 
more  calmly. 

"There,  there!  you  need  not  excite  yourself,  child!"  she 
said,  more  gently.  "  I  only  wanted  to  know  what  you  would 
say.  So  Miss  Mewlstone  has  been  to  you,  I  hear? — and  Miss 
Middleton,  too?  but  that's  her  benevolence.  Of  course  Miss 
Mattie  comss  out  of  curiosity.  How  I  do  detest  a  fussy  wom- 
an, with  a  tongue  that  chatters  faster  than  a  purling  biook! 
AVhat  do  you  say?  No  harm  in  her?"  for  Pliillis  had  mut- 
tered something  to  this  effect.  "  Oh,  that  is  nt-gaiive  praise! 
I  like  people  to  have  a  little  harm  in  them;  it  is  so  much 
more  amusujg. " 

"  1  can  not  say  I  am  of  your  opinion,"  returned  Phillis, 
coldly;  she  was  ralhor  ashamed  of  her  fit  of  enthusiasm,  and 
cross  in  consequence. 

"  My  dear,  I  always  thought  Lucifer  must  have  been  rather 
an  interesting  person."  Tlien,  as  Phillis  looked  scandalized 
and  drew  herself  up,  she  said,  in  a  fuimy  voice:  "  Now,  don't 
tell  your  mother  what  I  said,  or  she  will  think  me  an  improper 
character;  and  1  want  to  be  introduced  to  her." 

"  You  want  to  be  introduced  to  my  mother!"  Phillis  could 
hardly  believe  her  ears.  Certainly  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  a  most 
inexplicable  person. 

"  Dress-makers  don't  often  have  mothers,  do  they?"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Cheyne,  with  a  laugh;  "  at  least,  they  are  never 
on  view.  I  suppose  they  are  in  the  back  premises  doing 
something." 

"  Shellmg  pease,  for  example,"  replied  Phillis,  roused  to 
mischief  by   this:  "  that  is  mother's   work    this    morning. 


214:  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Dorothy  is  old  and  single-handed,  and  needs^  all  the  help  we 
can  give  her.     Oh,  yes!  I  will  take  you  to  hei-  at  once." 

"  Indeed  you  must  not,  if  it  will  inconvenience  her,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Oheyne,  drawing  back  a  little  at  this,  iShe  was 
full  of  curiosity  to  see  the  mother  of  these  singular  gii'ls,  but 
she  did  not  wish  to  have  her  illusion  too  roughly  diqielled; 
and  the  notion  of  Mrs.  Challoner's  homely  employment  grated 
a  little  on  (he  feelings  of  the  fine  laJy  who  had  never  done 
anything  useful  in  her  life. 

"  Oh,  nothing  puts  mother  out,"  returned  Phillis,  in  an 
indifferent  tone.  The  old  spirit  of  fun  was  waking  up  in 
her,  and  she  led  the  way  pronjptly  to  the  parlor. 

"  Mother,  Mrs.  Cheyne  wishes  to  see  you,"  she  announced, 
in  a  most  matter-of-fact  voice,  as  though  that  lady  were  a 
daily  visitor. 

Mrs.  Challoner  looked  up  in  a  little  surprise.  One  of  Doro- 
thy's rough  aprons  was  tied  over  her  nice  black  gown,  and  the 
yellow  earthenware  bowl  was  on  her  lap.  Phillis  took  up 
some  of  the  green  pods  and  began  playing  with  them. 

"  Will  you  excuse  my  rising?  you  see  my  employment," 
observed  Mrs  Challoner,  with  a  smile  that  was  almost  as 
charming  as  Nan's;  and  she  held  out  a  white  soft  hand  to  her 
visitor. 

The  perfect  ease  of  her  manner,  the  absence  of  all  flurry, 
produced  an  instant  effect  on  Mrs.  Cheyne.  For  a  moment 
she  stood  as  though  at  a  loss  to  explain  her  intrusion,  but 
the  next  minute  one  of  her  rare,  sunshiny  smiles  crossed  her 
face. 

"  I  mast  seem  impertinent,  but  your  daughters  have  in- 
terested me  so  much  that  1  was  anxious  to  see  their  mother. 
But  I  ought  to  apologize  for  disturbiiig  you  so  early." 

"  Not  at  all;  all  hours  are  the  same  to  me.  We  are  always 
glad  to  see  our  friends;  are  we  not,  Phillis?  My  dear,  I  wish 
you  would  carry  these  away  to  Dorothy  and  ask  her  to  finish 
them. " 

"  Oh,  no!  pray  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  eagerly.  "  You  must  not  punish  me  in  this  way. 
Let  me  help  you.  Indeed,  1  am  sure  I  can,  if  1  only  tried." 
And,  to  Phillis's  intense  amusement,  Mrs.  Cheyne  drew  off 
her  delicate  French  gloves,  and  in  another  moment  both 
ladies  were  seated  close  together,  shelling  pease  into  the  same 
pan,  and  talking  as  though  they  had  known  each  other  for 
years. 

"  Oh,  it  was  too  delicious!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  when  she 
had  retailed  this  interview  for  Nan's  and  Dulce's  benefit.     "  I 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    6IRL8.  SlU 

knew  mother  would  behave  beautifully.  If  I  had  taken  the 
Princess  of  Wales  in  to  see  her,  she  would  not  have  had  a  word 
of  apology  for  her  apron,  though  it  was  a  horrid  coarse  thing 
of  iJorothy's.  She  would  just  have  smiled  at  her  as  she  did 
at  Mrs.  Cheyne.     Mother's  behavior  is  always  lovely." 

"  Darling  old  mammie!"  put  in  Dulce,  rapturously,  at  this 
point. 

"  I  made  some  excuse  and  left  them  together,  because  I 
could  see  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  dying  to  get  rid  of  me;  and  I  am 
always  amiable,  and  like  to  please  people.  Oh,  it  was  the 
funniest  sight,  1  assure  you! — Mrs.  Cheyne  with  her  long  fin- 
gers blazing  with  diamond  rings,  and  the  pease  rolling  down 
her  silk  dress;  and  mother  just  going  on  with  her  business  in 
her  quiet  way.  Oh,  1  had  such  a  laugh  when  I  was  back  in 
the  work-room!" 

It  cost  Phil  I  is  some  trouble  to  be  properly  demure  when 
Mrs.  Cheyne  came  into  the  work-room  some  time  afterward 
in  search  of  her.  Perhaps  her  mischievous  eyes  betrayed  her, 
for  Mrs.  Cheyne  shook  her  head  at  her  in  pretended  rebuke: 

"  Ah,  I  see;  you  will  persist  in  treating  things  like  a  comedy. 
"Well,  that  is  better  than  putting  on  tragedy  airs  and  making 
ourselves  miserable.  Now  1  have  seen  your  mother,  I  am  not 
quite  so  puzzled.'" 

"Indeed!"  and  Phillis  fixed  her  eyes  innocently  on  Mrs. 
Cheyne's  face. 

'*  No;  but  I  am  not  going  to  make  you  vain  by  telling  you 
what  I  think  of  her;  indiscriminate  praise  is  not  wholesome. 
Now,  when  are  you  coming  to  see  me? — that  is  the  point  in 
question. " 

"  Dorothy  will  bring  home  your  dress  on  Saturday,"  replied 
Phillis,  a  little  dryly.  "If  it  requires  alteration,  perhaps  you 
will  let  me  know,  and  of  course  I  will  come  up  to  the  White 
House  at  any  time." 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  to  wait  for  that.  You  are  misunder- 
standing me  purposely.  Miss  Challoner.  1  want  you  to  come 
and  talk  to  me  one  evening — any  evening.  No  one  but  Miss 
Mewlstone  will  be  there." 

"  Oh,  no!"  responded  Phillis,  suddenly  turning  very  red; 
"  I  do  not  think  that  would  do  at  all,  Mrs.  Cheyne.  1  do 
not  mean  to  be  rude  or  ungrateful  for  your  kindness,  but — 
but — "     Here  the  girl  stammered  and  broke  down. 

"  You  wish,  then,  to  confine  our  intercourse  to  a  purely 
businpss  relation?"  asked  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and  her  voice  had  a 
tone  of  the  old  bitterness. 


S16  KOT    tIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Wonld  it  not  be  better,  under  the  circumstances?  For- 
give me  if  I  am  too  proud,  but — " 

"Oh,  you  are  proud,  terribly  proud!"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  taking  up  her  words  before  she  could  complete  her 
sentence.  "  You  owe  me  a  grudge  for  what  I  said  that  night, 
and  now  you  are  making  me  pay  the  penalty.  Well,  I  am 
not  meek;  there  is  not  a  human  being  living  to  whom  I  would 
sue  for  friendship.  If  I  were  starving  for  a  kind  word  1 
wodi  1  sooner  die  than  ask  for  one.  You  see,  I  am  proud  too. 
Miss  Chal loner.'* 

"  Ob,  1  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,*'  returned  Phillis,  dis- 
tressed at  tbis,  but  determined  not  to  yield  an  inch  or  bend  to 
the  sudden  caprice  of  this  extraordinary  woman,  who  had 
made  ber  suffer  so  once. 

"  To  be  burt,  one  must  have  feelings,"  returned  this  sin- 
gular person.  "  Do  not  be  afraid,  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
shake  your  resolution;  if  you  come  to  me  now  it  must  be  of 
your  own  free  will." 

"  And  if  I  come,  what  then?"  asked  Phillis,  standing  very 
straight  and  stiff,  for  she  would  not  be  patronized. 

"If  you  come  you  will  be  welcome,"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne; 
and  then,  with  a  grave  inclination  of  the  head,  she  swept  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXVll. 

A  DA15K   HOUR. 

'*  T  SHOULD  go  one  evening,  if  I  were  you;  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  Mrs.  Cheyne  has  taken  a  fancy  to  you,"  said  Nan,  who 
was  much  iuteresced  by  this  recital;  but  to  this  Phillis  replied, 
with  a  very  decided  sliake  of  the  bead: 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  I  was  not  made  to  be  a 
fine  lady's  protegee.  Jf  she  patronized  me,  I  should  grow 
savage  and  show  my  teeth;  and,  as  I  have  no  desire  to  break 
the  peace,  we  had  better  remain  strangers.  Dear  Magdalene 
certainly  has  a  temper  I"  finished  Phillis,  with  a  wicked  little 
sneer. 

Nan  tried  to  combat  this  resolution,  and  used  a  great  many 
arguments;  she  was  anxious  that  Phillis  should  avail  herself 
of  this  sudden  fancy  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Cheyne  to  lift  herself 
and  perhaps  all  of  them  into  society  with  their  equals.  Nan's 
good  sense  told  her  that  though  at  present  the  novelty  and  ex- 
citement of  their  position  prevented  them  from  realizing  the 
full  extent  of  their  isolation,  in  time  it  must  weigh  on  them 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS.  21? 

Tery  heavily,  and  especially  on  Pliillis,  who  was  bright  and 
clever  and  liked  society;  but  all  her  words  were  powerless 
against  IMiillis's  stubbornness;  to  the  White  Hou&e  she  could 
not  and  would  not  go. 

But  one  evening  she  changed  her  mind  very  suddenly,  when 
&  note  from  Miss  Mewlstoue  reached  her.  A  gardener's  boy 
brought  it.  "  It  was  very  particular,  and  was  to  be  delivered 
immediate  to  tlie  young  lady,"  he  observed,  holding  the  mis- 
sive between  a  very  grimy  finger  and  thumb, 

"  My  Dear  Young  Lady, — Pride  is  all  very  well,  but 
charity  is  often  best  in  the  long  run,  and  a  little  kindness  to 
a  sufifering  human  being  is  never  out  of  place  in  a  young  creat- 
ure like  you. 

"  Poor  Magdalene  has  been  very  sadly  for  days,  and  I  have 
got  it  into  my  stupid  old  head,  that  is  always  fancying  things, 
that  she  has  been  watching  for  folks  who  have  been  too  proud 
to  come,  though  she  would  die  sooner  than  tell  me  so;  but 
that  is  her  way,  poor  dear! 

"It  is  ill  lio  wake  at  nights  with  nothing  but  sad  thoughts 
for  company,  and  it  is  ill  wearing  out  the  long  days  wiih  only 
a  silly  old  body  to  cheer  one  up;  and  when  there  is  nothing 
fresh  to  say,  and  nothing  to  expect,  and  not  a  footstep  or  a 
voice  to  break  the  silence,  then  it  seems  to  me  that  a  young 
voice,  that  is,  a  kind  voice,  would  be  welcome.  Take  this  hint, 
my  dear,  and  keep  my  counsel,  for  I  am  only  a  silly  old  wom- 
an, as  she  often  says. 

"  Yours, 

"  Bathsheba  Mewlstone." 

"  Oh,  I  must  go  now!'*  observed  Phillis,  in  an  embarrassed 
voice,  as  she  laid  this  singular  note  before  Nan. 

"  Yes,  dear;  and  you  had  belter  p<it  on  your  hat  at  once, 
and  Dulce  and  I  will  walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  gate.  It  is 
sad  for  you  to  miss  the  scramble  on  the  shore;  but,  when  other 
people  really  want  us,  I  feel  as  though  it  were  a  direct  call," 
finished  Nan,  solemnly. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  a  storm  coming  up,"  replied  Phillis, 
who  had  been  oppressed  all  day  by  the  heavy,  thundery  atmos- 
phere. She  had  looked  so  heated  and  weary  that  Xan  had 
proposed  a  walk  by  the  shore.  Work  was  pouring  upon  them 
from  all  sides;  the  townspeople,  envious  of  Mrs.  Trimmings's 
stylish  new  dress,  were  besieging  the  Friary  with  orders,  and 
the  young  dress-makers  would  have  been  literally  overwhelmed 
with  their  labors,  only  that  Kan,  with  admirable  foresight, 


218  NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS. 

insisted  on  taking  in  no  more  work  than  they  felt  themselves 
able  to  complete. 

'•  No/'  she  ivoulil  say  to  some  disappointed  customer,  "  our 
hands  are  full  just  now,  and  we  can  not  undertake  any  more 
orders  at  present;  we  will  not  promise  more  than  we  can  per- 
form. Come  to  me  again  iu  a  fortnight's  time,  and  we  will 
willingly  make  your  dress,  but  now  it  is  impossible."  And  in 
most  cases  the  dress  was  brought  punctually  at  the  time  ap- 
pointed. 

Phillis  used  to  grumble  a  little  at  this. 

*'  You  ought  not  to  refuse  orders.  Nan,"  she  said,  rather 
fretfully,  once.  "  Any  other  dress-maker  would  sit  up  half 
the  night  rather  than  disappoint  a  customer." 

"My  dear,"  Nau  returned,  in  her  elder-sisterly  voice, 
which  had  always  a  great  effect  on  Phillis,  "  1  wonder  what 
use  Dulce  and  you  would  be  if  you  sat  up  sewing  half  the 
night,  and  drinking  strong  tea  to  keep  yourselves  awake? 
No,  there  shall  be  no  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends  in  this 
fashion.  Please  God,  we  will  keep  our  health  and  our  cus- 
tomers; and  no  one  in  their  senses  could  call  us  idle.  Why, 
we  are  quite  the  fashion!  Mrs.  Squalls  told  me  yesterday 
that  every  one  in  Hadleigh  was  wild  to  have  a  gown  made  by 
the  '  lady  dress-makers.'  " 

"Oh,  I  dare  say!"  replied  Phillis,  crossly,  for  the  poor 
thing  was  so  hot  and  tired  that  she  could  have  cried  from  pure 
weariness  and  vexation  of  spirit;  "  but  we  shall  not  be  the 
fashion  long  when  the  novelty  wears  off.  People  will  call  us 
independent,  and  get  tired  of  us;  and  no  wonder,  if  they  are 
to  wait  for  their  dresses  in  this  way." 

Nan's  only  answer  was  to  look  at  Fhillis's  pale  face  in  a 
pitying  way;  and  then  she  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  to  the 
corner,  where  her  mother's  Bible  always  lay,  and  then  with 
ready  fingers  turned  to  the  well-known  passage,  "  Man  goeth 
forth  unto  his  work  and  to  his  labor  unto  the  evening." 

"  Well,  Nan,  what  then?" 

"  Evening  is  for  rest — for  refreshment  of  mind  and  body; 
I  will  not  have  it  turned  into  a  time  of  toil.  I  know  you, 
Phillis;  you  would  work  till  your  poor  fingers  got  thin,  and 
your  spirits  were  all  flattened  out,  and  every  nerve  was  jarring 
and  sot  on  edge;  and  you  would  call  that  duty!  No,  darling 
— never!  Duloe  shall  keep  her  roses,  and  we  will  have  battle- 
door  and  shuttlecock  every  evening;  but,  if  I  have  to  keep  the 
key  of  the  work-room  in  my  pocket,  you  and  Dulce  shall 
never  enter  it  after  tea."  And  Nan's  good  sense,  as  usual, 
carried  the  day 


KOf    Ltitil    OTUER    GiilLg.  ^lO 

Fhillis  would  much  rather  have  joined  her  sisters  in  their 
walk  than  have  turned  in  at  the  gloomy  lodge  gates. 

"  '  All  ye  who  enter  here,  leave  hope  behind,'  " 

she  quoted,  softly,  as  she  waved  her  hand  to  Nan. 

The  servant  who  admitted  her  looked  a  little  dubious  over 
his  errand. 

"  His  mistress  was  in  her  room,"  he  believed,  '*  and  was 
far  too  unwell  to  see  visitors.  He  would  tell  Miss  Mewlstoue, 
if  the  young  lady  liked  to  wait;  but  he  was  sure  it  was  no 
use  '^ — all  very  civilly  said.  And  as  Phillis  persisted  in  her 
intention  of  seeing  Mrs.  Cheyne,  if  possible,  he  ushered  her 
into  the  library,  a  gloomy-looking  room,  with  closed  blinds, 
one  of  which  he  drew  up,  and  then  went  in  search  of  Miss 
Mewlstoue. 

Phillis  did  not  find  her  surroundings  particularly  cheerful. 
The  air  was  darkened  by  the  approaching  storm.  A  sullen 
cloud  hung  over  the  sky.  The  library  windows  opened  upon 
the  shrubberies.  Here  the  trees  were  planted  so  thickly  that 
iheir  shade  obscured  much  of  the  light.  The  room  was  so 
dark  that  she  could  only  dimly  discern  the  handsome  bindings 
of  the  books  in  the  carved  oak  book-cases.  The  whole  of  the 
furniture  seemed  somber  and  massive.  The  chair  that  the 
footman  had  placed  for  her  was  covered  with  violet  velvet, 
and  was  in  harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  furniture. 

Dreary  as  the  room  looked,  it  was  nothing  to  the  shrubbery 
walk.  A  narrow,  winding  path  seemed  to  vanish  into  uiter 
darkness.  In  some  places  the  trees  met  overhead,  so  closely 
had  they  grown. 

"  If  1  were  the  mistress  of  the  White  House,"  Phillis  said 
to  herself,  "  1  would  cut  every  one  of  those  trees  down.  They 
must  make  this  part  of  the  house  quite  unhealthy.  It  really 
looks  like  a  '  ghost-walk  '  that  one  reads  about."  But  snarue- 
ly  had  these  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind  when  she  ut- 
tered a  faint  cry  of  alarm.  The  dark  room,  the  impending 
storm,  and  her  own  overwrought  feelings  were  making  her 
nervous;  but  actually,  through  the  gloom,  she  could  see  a  fig- 
ure in  white  approaching. 

In  another  moment  she  would  have  sought  refuge  in  the. 
hall,  but  contempt  at  her  own  cowardice  kept  her  rooted  to 
the  spot. 

"  8he  was  an  utter  goose  to  be  so  starlled!  It  was — yes,  of 
course  it  was  Mrs.  Cheyne.  She  could  see  her  more  plainly 
now.     She  would  step  through  tlin  window  and  meet  her." 

Phillis's  feelings  of  uueusiuess  hud  not  quite  vanished.    The 


$30  KOf    LtKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

obscurity  was  confusing,  and  invested  everything  with  an  un- 
natural effect.  Even  Mrs.  Cheyne's  Ggure,  c  )ming  out  from 
the  dai-k  background,  seemed  strange  and  unfamiliar.  Pliillis 
had  always  before  seen  her  iu  black;  but  now  she  wore  a  white 
gowiK  fashioned  loosely,  like  a  wrapper,  and  her  hair,  which 
at  other  times  had  been  most  carefully  arranged,  was  now 
strained  tisihtlyand  unbecomingly  from  her  face,  which  looked 
pallid  and  drawn.  She  start^'d  violently  when  she  saw  Phillis 
coming  toward  her.  and  seemed  inclined  to  draw  back  and  re- 
trace her  steps.  It  evidently  cost  her  a  strong  effort  to  re- 
cover herself.  She  seemed  to  conquer  her  reluctance  with 
difficulty. 

"  So  you  have  come  at  last,  Miss  Challoner,"  she  said,  fix- 
ing her  eyes,  which  looked  unnaturally  bright,  on  Phillis. 
Her  voice  was  cold,  almost  harsh,  and  her  countenance  ex- 
pressed no  pleasure.  The  hand  she  held  out  was  so  lim])  and 
cold  that  Phillis  relinquished  it  hastily. 

"  You  said  that  I  should  be  welcome,"  she  faltered,  and 
trying  not  to  appear  alarmed.  She  was  too  young  and  healthy 
to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word  hysteria,  or  to  guess 
at  the  existence  of  nervous  maladies  that  make  some  people's 
lives  a  long  torment  to  them.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Cheyne's 
singular  aspect  filled  her  with  vague  fear.  It  did  not  enter 
into  her  mind  to  connect  the  coming  storm  with  Mrs.  Cheyne's 
condition,  until  she  hinted  at  it  herself. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are  welcome,"  she  responded,  wearily.  "  1 
have  looked  for  you  evening  after  evening,  but  you  chose  to 
come  with  the  storm.  It  is  a  pity,  perhaps;  but  then  you  did 
not  know." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  know?"  asked  Phillis,  timidly. 

Mis.  Cheyne  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little  flightily. 

"  Oh,  you  are  young!"  she  returned;  "you  do  not  under- 
stand what  nerves  mean;  you  sleep  sweetly  of  a  night,  and 
have  no  bad  dreams;  it  does  not  matter  to  you  happy  people 
if  the  air  is  full  of  sunshine  or  surcharged  with  electricity. 
For  me,  when  the  sun  ceases  to  shine  I  am  in  despair.  Fogs 
find  me  brooding.  An  impending  storm  suffocates  me,  and 
yet  tears  me  to  pieces  with  restlessness;  it  drives  me  hither  and 
thither  like  a  fallen  leaf.  I  tire  myself  that  I  may  sleep,  and 
yet  I  stare  open-eyed  for  hours  together  into  the  darkness.  I 
wonder  sometimes  I  do  not  go  mad.  But  there!  let  us  walk — 
let  lis  walk."  And  she  made  a  movement  to  retrace  her  steps; 
but  Phdli:^,  with  a  courage  for  which  she  commended  herself 
afterward,  pulled  her  back  by  her  hanging  sleeves. 

"  Oh,  not  there!  it  is  not  good  for  any  one  who  is  sad  to 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS  22i 

walk  in  that  dark  place.  No  wonder  your  Ihoaghts  are 
somber.  Look!  the  heavy  rain-drnpj  are  pattering  among 
the  leaves.  I  do  nut  care  to  get  weL;  let  us  go  buek  to  the 
hiuse. " 

"  Prthaw!  what  does  it  matter  getting  wet?"  she  returned, 
with  a  little  scorn;  but,  nevertheless,  she  suileredPhiliis  to  take 
her  arm  and  draw  her  gently  toward  the  house.  Only  as  they 
cam*  near  the  library  window,  she  pointed  to  it  itidigiiantly. 
"  Who  has  dared  to  enter  that  room  or  open  the  window? 
Have  I  not  forbidden  over  and  over  again  that  that  room 
should  be  used?  Do  you  think,"  she  continued,  in  the  same 
exrited  way,  "  that  1  would  enter  that  room  to-night  of  all 
nights?  vVhy,  I  should  hear  his  angry  voice  pealing  in  every 
corner!  It  was  a  good  room  for  echoes;  and  he  could  speak 
loudly  if  he  chose.  Come  away!  there  is  a  door  I  always  use 
that  leads  to  my  private  apartments.  I  am  no  recluse,  but 
in  these  moods  1  do  not  care  to  show  myself  to  people.  If  you 
are  not  afraid,  you  may  come  with  me,  unless  you  prefer  Miss 
Mewlstone's  company." 

"  I  would  rather  go  with  you,"  returned  Phillis,  gently, 
yhe  could  not  in  truth  say  she  was  not  afraid;  but  all  the 
same  she  must  try  and  soothe  the  poor  creature  who  was  evi- 
dently enduring  such  torments  of  mind:  so  she  followed  in 
silence  up  the  broad  oak  staircase. 

A  green-baize  door  admitted  them  into  a  long  and  somewhat 
narrow  corridor,  lighted  up  by  a  row  of  high  narrow  windows 
set  prettily  with  flower-boxes.  Here  there  were  several  doors. 
Mrs.  Cheyne  paused  before  one  a  mf)ment. 

"  Look  here!  you  shall  see  the  mysteries  of  the  west  wing. 
This  is  ray  world:  down-stairs  I  am  a  different  creature — taci- 
turn, harsh,  and  prone  to  sarcasm.  Ask  Mr.  Drummond 
what  he  thinks  of  me;  but  I  never  could  endure  a  good  young 
man — especially  that  delicious  compound  of  the  worldling  and 
the  saint — like  the  Reverend  Archibald.  See  here,  my  dear: 
here  1  am  never  captious  or  say  naughty  things!" 

She  threw  open  the  door,  and  softly  beckoned  to  Phillis  to 
enter.  It  was  a  large  empty  room — evidently  a  nursery. 
Some  canaries  were  twittering  faintly  in  a  gilded  cage.  There 
were  flowers  in  the  two  windows,  and  in  the  vases  on  the  table: 
evidently  some  loving  hands  had  arranged  them  that  very 
morjn'ng.  A  large  rocking-horse  occupied  the  center  of  the 
floor;  a  doll  lay  willi  its  face  downward  on  the  crimson  carpet; 
a  pile  of  wooden  soldiers  strutted  on  their  zigzag  platform — 
one  or  two  had  fallen  ofl;  a  torn  picture-book  had  been  flung 
beside  them. 


^^^  ifOT    TJKE    OTHER    GTRLS. 

"  That  was  my  Janie's  picture-bonk,''  said  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
mournfully;  "  she  was  leaching  her  doll  out  of  it  just  before 
she  was  taken  ill.  Nothing  was  touched;  by  a  sort  of  inspira- 
tion— a  foreboding — I  do  not  know  what — I  bade  nurse  leave 
the  toys  as  they  were,  '  It  is  only  an  interrupted  game:  let 
the  darlings  find  their  toys  as  they  put  them/  I  said  to  her  that 
morning.  Look  at  the  soldiers;  Bertie  was  always  for  soldiers 
— bless  him!" 

Her  manner  had  grown  calmer;  and  she  spoke  with  such 
touching  tenderness  that  tears  came  to  Phillis's  eyes.  But 
Mrs.  Cheyne  never  once  looked  at  the  girl;  she  lingered  by 
the  table  a  moment,  adjusting  a  leaf  here  and  a  bud  there  in 
the  bouquets,  and  then  she  opened  an  inner  door  leading  to 
the  night-nursery.  Here  the  associations  were  still  more  har- 
rowing. The  cots  stood  side  by  side  under  a  muslin  canopy, 
with  an  alabaster  angel  between  them;  the  little  night-dress 
lay  folded  on  the  pillows;  on  each  quilt  were  the  scarlet  dress- 
ing-gown and  the  pair  of  tiny  slippers;  the  clothes  were  piled 
neatly  on  two  chairs — a  boy's  velvet  tunic  on  one,  a  girl's 
white  frock,  a  little  limp  and  discolored,  huug  over  the  rails 
of  the  other. 

"  Everything  just  the  same!"  murmured  the  poor  mother. 
*'  Look  here,  my  dear  " — with  a  faint  smile — "  these  are  Ber- 
tie's slippers:  there  is  the  hole  he  kicked  in  them  when  he  was 
in  his  tempers,  for  my  boy  had  the  Cheyne  temper.  He  was 
Herbert's  image — his  very  image."  She  sighed,  paused,  and 
vent  on:  "  Every  night  I  come  and  sit  beside  their  beds,  and 
then  the  darlings  come  to  me.  1  can  see  their  faces — oh,  so 
plainly! — and  hear  their  voices.  '  Good-night,  dear  mamma!* 
thev  seem  to  say  to  me,  only  Bertie's  voice  is  always  the 
louder. 


>  > 


Her  manner  was  becoming  a  little  excited  again:  only  Phil- 
lis  toiik  her  hand  and  pressed  it  gently,  and  the  touch  seemed 
to'sonth'  her  like  magic. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  come  here  every  night,"  she  said,  in  her 
sweet,  serious  voice,  from  wliich  every  trace  of  fear  had  gone. 
"  I  think  that  a  beautiful  idea,  to  come  and  say  your  prayers 
biiside  one  of  these  little  beds." 

"  To  say  my  prayers — 1  pray  beside  my  darlings'  beds!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Cheyne,  in  a  startled  voice.  "Oh,  no!  1 
nerer  do  that.  God  wu uld  not  hear  such  prayers  as  mine — 
uover — never!" 

"  Dtiir  Mrs  Cheyne,  why  n  t?"  She  moved  restlessly  away 
at  the  questiju,  auu  tried  lo  disengage  herself  from  Phillis's 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  2)23 

firm  grasp.     *'The  Divine  Father  hears  all  prayers,"  whis- 
pered the  girl. 

"  All — but  not  mine — not  miue,  or  I  should  not  be  sitting 
here  alone.  Do  you  know  my  husband  left  me  in  anger — that 
his  last  words  to  me  were  the  bitterest  he  ever  spoke?  '  Good- 
bye, Magdalene;  you  have  made  my  life  so  wretched  that  I  do 
not  care  if  1  never  live  to  set  foot  in  this  house  again!'  And 
that  to  me — his  wedded  wife,  and  the  mother  of  his  children 
— who  loved  him  so.  Oh,  Herbert!  Herbert!"  and,  covering 
her  face,  the  unhappy  woman  suddenly  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears. 


CHAPTER   XXVni. 

THE  MYSTERIOUS   STRANGER. 

Phillis  kept  a  sad  silence:  not  for  worlds  would  she  have 
checked  the  flow  of  tears  that  must  have  been  so  healing  to 
the  tortured  brain.  Besides,  what  was  there  that  she,  so 
young  and  inexperienced,  could  say  in  the  presence  of  a  grief 
so  terrible,  so  overpowering?  The  whole  thing  was  inexplic- 
able to  Phillis.  Why  were  the  outworks  of  conventionality  so 
suddenly  thrown  down?  Why  was  she,  a  stranger,  permitted 
to  be  a  witness  of  such  a  revelation?  As  she  sat  there  speech- 
less and  sympathizing,  a  faint  sound  reached  her  ear — the 
rustle  of  a  dress  in  the  adjoining  room — footsteps  that  ap- 
proached warily,  and  then  paused;  a  moment  afterward  the 
door  closed  softly  behind  them.  Phillis  looked  round  quickly, 
but  could  see  nothing;  and  the  same  instant  a  peal  ot  thunder 
rolled  over  their  heads. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  started  up  with  a  hysterical  scream,  and 
caught  hold  of  Phillis.  "Come,"  she  said,  almost  wildly, 
"  we  will  not  stay  here.  The  children  will  not  come  to-night, 
for  who  could  hear  their  voices  in  such  a  storm?  My  little 
angels — but  they  shall  not  see  me  like  this.  Come,  come!" 
And  taking  the  girl  by  the  arm,  she  almost  dragged  her  from 
the  room,  and  led  the  way  with  rapid  and  disordered  footsteps 
to  a  large  luxurious  chamber,  furnished  evidently  as  a  dress- 
ing-room, and  only  divided  from  the  sleeping- room  by  a  cur- 
tained aichway. 

As  Mrs.  Cheyne  threw  herself  down  in  an  arm-chair  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  the  curtain  was  drawn  back,  and 
Miss  Mewlstone  came  in  with  an  anxious,  almost  frightened 
expression  on  her  good-natured  countenance.  She  hurried  up 
to  Mr3.  Cheyne,  and  took  her  in  her  arms  as  though  she  wer§ 
»  oliJWt 


234  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  'Now,  Magdalene,  now,  my  dear,**  she  said,  coaxingly, 
*' you  will  try  to  be  good  and  command  yourself  before  this 
young  lady.  Look  at  her:  she  is  not  a  bit  afraid  of  the  storm 
— are  you.  Miss  Challoner.^  No,  just  so;  you  are  far  too 
sensible." 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  you  always  tell  me,"  returned  Mrs. 
Cheyne.  wrenching  herself  free  with  some  violence.  "Be 
sensible — be  good — when  I  am  nearly  mad  with  the  op- 
pression and  suffocation,  here,  and  here,"  pointing  to  her  head 
and  breast.  "  Commonplaces,  commonplaces;  as  well  stop 
a  deluge  with  a  tea-cup.  Oh,  you  are  an  old  fool,  Barby:  you 
will  never  learn  wisdom." 

"My  poor  lamb!  Barby  never  minds  one  word  you  say 
when  you  are  like  this." 

"  Oh,  I  will  beg  your  pardon  to-morrow,  or  when  the 
thunder  stops.  Hark!  there  it  is  again,"  cowering  down  in 
her  chair.  "  Can't  you  pray  for  it  to  cease,  Barby?  Oh,  it 
is  too  horrible!  Don't  you  recollect  the  night  he  rode  away 
— right  into  the  storm,  into  the  very  teeth  of  the  storm? 
*  Good-bye,  Magdalene;  who  knows  when  we  may  meet  again?' 
and  I  never  looked  at  him,  never  kissed  him,  never  broke  the 
silence  by  one  word;  and  the  thunder  came,  and  he  was  gone," 
beating  the  air  with  her  hands. 

"Oh,  hush,  my  dear,  hush!  Let  me  read  to  you  a  little, 
and  the  fever  will  soon  pass.  You  are  frightening  the  poor 
young  lady  with  your  wild  talk,  and  no  wonder!" 

"  Pshaw!  who  minds  the  girl?  Let  her  go  or  stop;  what 
do  I  care?  What  is  the  world  to  me,  when  I  am  tormented 
hke  this?  Three  years,  four  years — more  thaji  a  thousand 
days— of  this  misery!  Oh,  Barby!  do  you  think  I  have  been 
punished  enough?  do  you  think  where  he  is,  up  in  heaven 
with  tiiQ  children,  that  he  forgives  and  pities  me,  who  was 
such  a  ba.l  wife  to  him?" 

As  Miss  Mewlstone  paused  a  moment  to  wipe  (he  tears  that 
were  flowing  over  her  old  cheeks,  Phillis's  voice  came  to  her 
relief. 

"  Oh,  can  you  doubt  it?"  she  said,  in  much  agination. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Cheyne,  can  you  have  an  instant's  doubt?  Do 
you  think  the  dead  carry  all  these  paltry  earthly  feelings  into 
the  blight  place  yonder?  Forgive  you — oh,  there  is  no  need 
of  forgiveness  there;  he  will  only  be  loving  you~he,  and  the 
children  too." 

"  God  bless  you!"  whispered  Miss  Mewlstone.  "  Hush,  thac 
is  enough!  Go,  my  dear,  go.  and  I  will  come  to  von  presently. 
Magdalene,  put  your  poor  head  down  here:  I  have  thought 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS.  22C 

of  sompthing  that  will  do  you  good."  She  waved  Phillis  away 
almost  impatieutly,  and  laid  the  poor  sufferer's  head  on  her 
bosom,  shielding  it  from  the  .flashes  that  darted  through  the 
room.  Phillis  could  see  her  bending  over  her,  and  her  voice 
was  as  tender  as  though  she  were  soothing  a  sick  infant. 

Phillis  was  trembling  with  agitation,  as  she  stole  down  the 
dark  corridor.  Never  in  her  happy  young  life  had  she  wit- 
nessed or  imagined  such  a  scene.  The  wild  words,  the  half- 
maddened  gestures,  the  look  of  agonv  stamped  on  the  pale,  al- 
most distorted  features,  would  haunt  her  for  many  a  day.  Oh, 
hnw  the  poor  soul  must  have  suffered  before  she  lost  self-cou- 
trul  and  balance  like  this! 

It  was  not  the  death  of  her  children  that  had  so  utterly  un- 
nerved her.  ft  must  ha^e  been  that  bitter  parting  with  her 
husband,  and  the  remembrance  of  angry  words  never  to  be 
atO!ied  for  in  this  life,  that  wascankering'the  root  of  her  peace, 
and  that  brought  about  these  moods  of  despair. 

Phillis  thought  of  Coleridge's  lines: 

"  And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain  " — 

as  she  took  refuge  in  the  dim  drawing-room.  Here,  at  leaat, 
there  were  signs  of  human  life  and  occupation.  A  little  tea- 
table  had  been  set  in  one  window,  though  the  tea  was  cold. 
The  greyhounds  came  and  laid  their  slender  noses  on  her 
g)wn,  and  one  small  Italian  one  coiled  himself  up  on  her  lap. 
Miss  Mbwistone's  work-basket  stood  open,  and  a  tortoise-shell 
kitten  had  helped  itself  to  a  ball  of  wool  and  was  busily  un- 
winiling  it.  The  dogs  were  evidently  frightened  at  the  storm, 
for  they  all  gathered  round  Phillis,  shivering  and  whining,  as 
though  missing  their  mistress;  and  she  had  much  ado  to  com- 
fort them,  though  she  loved  animals  and  understood  their 
dumb  language  better  than  most  people. 

It  was  not  so  very  long,  and  yet  it  seemed  hours  before  Miss 
Mewlstoiie  came  down  to  her. 

*'  Are  you  here,  my  dear?"  she  asked,  in  a  loud  whisper, 
for  the  room  was  dark.  "Ah!  just  so.  We  must  have 
lights,  and  I  must  give  you  a  glass  of  wine  or  a  nice  hot  cup 
of  coffee."  And,  notwithstanding  Phillis's  protest  that  she 
never  took  wine,  and  was  not  in  need  of  anything,  Miss  Mewl- 
stoue  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  the  footman  to  bring  in  the 
lamp.  "  And  tell  Bishop  to  send  up  some  nice  hot  coffee  and 
sandwiches  as  soon  as  possible.  For  young  people  never  know 
what  they  want,  and  you  are  just  worried  and  tired  to  death 
with  all  you  have  gone  through — not  being  an  oW   wowaq 


226  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

and  seasoned  to  it  like  me,"  went  on  the  good  creature,  and 
slie  patted  Phillis's  L-lieek  eiicouraginglj  as  she  spoke. 

"  But  how  IS  slie?  Oh,  ihanli  God,  the  storm  has  lulled  at 
last!"  exelaimed  the  girl,  breathlessly. 

"  Oh,  yes;  the  stoi  m  is  over.  Wo  have  reason  to  dread 
storms  in  this  house,"  returned  Miss  Mewlstone,  gravely. 
*'  She  was  quite  exhausted,  and  let  Charlotte  and  me  help  her 
to  bed.  Now  she  ha^  had  her  composing  draught,  and  Char- 
lotte will  sit  by  her  till  I  go  up.  I  always  watch  by  her  all 
night  after  one  of  these  attacks." 

"  Is  it  a  nervous  attack?"  asked  Phillis,  timidly,  for  she 
felt  she  was  treading  on  delicate  ground. 

"I  believe  Doctor  Parkes  calls  it  hysteria/' replied  Miss 
Mewlstone,  hesitating  a  little.  "  Ah,  we  have  sad  times  with 
her.  You  heard  what  she  said,  poor  dear;  she  has  been  sorely 
tried." 

"  Was  not  her  husband  good  to  her,  then?" 

*'  I  am  sure  he  meant  to  be  kind,"  returned  Miss  Mewl- 
stone, sorrowfully,  "  for  he  loved  her  dearly;  but  he  was  pas- 
sionate and  masterful,  and  was  one  that  would  have  his  way. 
As  long  as  it  was  only  courtship,  he  worshiped  the  ground  she 
walked  upon,  as  the  saying  is.  But  poor  Magdalene  was  not  a 
good  wife.  She  was  cold  when  she  ought  to  have  been  caress- 
ing, stubborn  when  she  might  have  yielded;  and  sarcasm  never 
yet  healed  a  wound.  Ah,  here  comes  your  coffee!  Thank 
yon,  Evans.  Now,  my  dear,  you  must  just  eat  and  drink, 
and  put  some  color  into  those  pale  cheeks.  Scenes  like  these 
are  not  good  for  young  creatures  like  you.  But  when  Magda- 
lene is  in  these  moods,  she  would  not  care  if  the  whole  world 
listened  to  her.  To-morrow  she  will  be  herself,  and  remem- 
ber and  be  ashamed;  and  then  you  must  not  mind  if  she  be 
harder  and  colder  than  ever.  She  will  say  bitter  things  all 
the  more,  because  she  is  angered  at  her  own  want  of  self-con- 
trol." 

'*  I  can  understand  that:  that  is  just  as  1  should  feel,"  re- 
turned Phillis,  shuddering  a  little  at  the  idea  of  encountering 
Mrs.  Cheyne's  keen-edged  sarcasms.  "  She  will  not  like  to 
see  me  any  more;  she  will  think  1  had  no  right  to  witness  such" 
a  scene." 

"  It  is  certainly  a  pity  that  I  wrote  that  note,"  returned 
Miss  Mewlstone,  reflectively.  "  1  hoped  that  you  would  turn 
her  thoughts,  and  that  we  might  avert  the  usual  nervous 
paroxysm.  \Yhen  I  opened  the  door  and  saw  you  sitting  to- 
gether so  peacefully  beside  the  children's  beds,  I  expected  a 
tnilder  mood^  but  it  was  the  thunder.    Poor  Magdalene!  skp 


K-OT    LTKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  W 

has  never  been  able  to  control  herself  in  a  storm  since  the 
evening  Herbert  left  her,  and  we  went  in  and  found  her  lying 
insensible  in  the  library,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  worst  storms 
I  have  ever  witnessed. " 

"  That  was  when  he  said  those  cruel  words  to  her?"  ejacu- 
lated Phillis. 

"  Yes.  Did  she  repeat  them?  How  often  1  have  r)egged 
her  to  forget  them,  and  to  believe  that  he  repented  of  them 
before  an  hour  was  over!  Ah,  well!  the  sting  of  death  /ies  in 
this:  if  she  had  said  one  word,  one  little  word,  she  would  be  a 
different  woman,  in  spite  of  the  children's  death.  God's 
strokes  are  less  cruel  than  men's  strokes:  the  reed  may  be 
bruised  by  them,  but  is  not  broken.  She  had  a  long  illness 
after  the  children  were  gone;  it  was  too  much — too  much  for 
any  woman's  heart  to  bear.  You  see,  she  wanted  her  hus- 
band to  comfort  her.  Doctor  Parkes  feared  for  her  brain,  but 
we  pulled  her  through.  Ah,  just  so,  my  dear;  we  pulled  her 
through!"  finished  Miss  Mewlstone,  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are  to  her!  she  is  happy  to  have  such 
a  friend!"  observed  Phillis,  enthusiastically. 

Miss  Mewlstone  shook  her  head,  and  a  tear  rolled  down  her 
face. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  only  an  old  fool,  as  she  said  just  now. 
And,  after  all,  the  company  of  a  stupid  old  woman  is  not  much 
to  a  proud  bonny  creature  like  that.  Sometimes  for  days  to- 
gether she  hardly  opens  her  lips  to  me;  we  sit  together,  eat 
together,  drive  together,  and  not  a  word  for  Barby.  But 
sometimes,  poor  dear!  she  will  cling  to  me  and  cry,  and  say 
her  heart  is  breaking.  And  Solomon  was  right:  but,  it  was 
not  only  a  brother  that  is  good  for  adversity.  When  she 
wants  me,  I  am  here,  and  there  's  nothing  1  will  not  do  for 
her,  and  she  knows  it;  and  that  is  about  the  long  and  short 
of  it,"  finished  Miss  I\Iewlstone,  dismissing  the  subject  with 
another  sigh.  And  then  she  bade  Plidiis  finish  her  coffee  and 
put  on  her  hat.  "  For  your  mother  will  be  expecting  you, 
and  wondering  what  has  become  of  you;  and  Phillips  or  Evans 
must  walk  with  you,  for  it  is  past  nine  o'clock,  and  such  a 
pretty  young  lady  must  not  go  unattended,"  concluded  tde 
simple  woman. 

Phillis  laughed  and  kissed  her  at  this;  but,  though  she  said 
nothing  of  her  intentions,  she  determined  to  dismiss  the  serv- 
ant as  soon  as  possible,  and  run  on  alone  to  the  Friaty,  She 
had  not  forgotten  her  ennounter  with  Mr.  Drummond  on  iier 
last  visit  to  the  White  Housej  but  to-night  the  storm  would 
keep  him  in-doois. 


§28  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Evans,  the  new  footman,  was  desired  to  escort  her;  but  in 
the  middle  of  the  avenue  Phillis  civilly  dismissed  him. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  two  of  us  to  get  wet;  and  the  rain  is 
coming  on  very  heavily,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  hesitated;  but  he  was  slow-witted  and  new 
to  his  duty,  and  the  young  lady  had  a  peremptory  way  with 
her,  So  he  touched  his  hat,  and  went  back  to  the  house, 

"  Such  nonsense,  having  a  liveried  servant  at  my  heels, 
when  I  am  only  a  dress-maker!"  thought  Phillis,  scurrying 
down  the  avenue  like  a  chased  rabbit. 

Hitherto,  the  trees  had  sheltered  her;  but  a  glance  at  the 
open  road  and  the  driving  rain  made  her  resolve  to  take  refuge 
in  the  porch  of  the  cottage  that  stood  opposite  the  gate.  Jt 
was  the  place  where  Nan  and  her  mother  had  once  lodged; 
and,  though  all  the  lights  were  exiinguished,  and  the  people 
had  retired  to  bed,  she  felt  a  comfortable  sense  of  safety  as  she 
unlatched  the  little  gate.  Not  even  Mr.  Drummoiid  would  dis- 
cover her  there. 

But  Phillis's  satisfaction  was  of  short  duration:  the  foolish 
girl  was  soon  to  repent  of  her  fool-hardiness  in  dismissing  her 
escort.  She  little  knew  that  her  words  to  Evans  had  been 
overheard,  and  that  behind  the  dripping  shrubbery  she  had 
been  watched  and  followed.  Scarcely  had  she  taken  refuge 
under  ihe  green  porch,  and  placed  her  wet  umbrella  to  dry, 
before  she  heard  the  latch  of  the  little  gate  unclosed,  and  a 
tall  dark  figure  came  up  the  gravel  walk.  It  was  not  Isaac 
Williams's  portly  form — she  could  discern  that  in  the  darkness 
— and,  for  the  moment,  a  thrill  of  deadly  terror  came  upon 
the  incautious  girl;  but  the  next  minute  her  natural  courage 
returned  to  her  aid.  The  porch  was  just  underneath  the 
room  where  Isaac  slept;  a  call  of  '  help  '  would  reach  him  at 
once;  there  was  no  reason  for  this  alaim  at  all.  Neverthe- 
less,, she  shrunk  back  a  little  as  the  stranger  came  directly 
toward  her,  then  paused  as  though  in  some  embarrassment: 

"  Pardon  me,  but  you  have  poor  shelter  here.  1  am  Mrs. 
Williams's  lodger.  I  could  easily  let  you  into  the  cottage.  1 
am  afraid  the  rain  comes  through  the  trellis  work." 

Phillis's  htarl  gave  a  great  thump  of  relief.  In  the  first 
place,  Mrs.  Williams's  lodger  must  be  a  respectable  person, 
and  no  dangerous  loafer  or  pickpocket;  in  ihe  second  place, 
the  refined,  cultured  tones  of  the  stranger  pleased  her  ear. 
Piiillis  had  a  craze  on  this  point.  "  You  may  be  deceived  in  a 
face,  but  in  a  voice,  never!"  yhe  would  say;  and,  as  she  told 
Nan  afterward,  the  m  imeiit  that  voice  greeted  her  iu  the 
darkness  she  felt  no  further  fear. 


NOT    MKE    OTHER    6IRL8.  '^29 

*'  1  have  a  dry  corner  here,"  she  returned,  quietly;  "  it  ia 
only  a  thunder-shower,  and  I  am  close  to  home — only  down 
the  road,  and  just  round  the  corner,  past  the  vicarage." 

"Past  the  vicarage  I"  in  atone  of  surprise:  "  why,  there 
are  no  houses  there!" 

"There  is  a  very  small  one  called  the  Friary,"  returned 
Phillis,  feeling  herself  color  in  the  darkness,  as  she  mentioned 
their  humble  abode.  There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment, 
and  then  her  mysterious  neighbor  continued: 

"  My  good  landlord  seems  to  retire  early:  the  whole  place 
looks  deserted.  They  are  very  early  risers,  and  perhaps  that 
is  the  reason.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  pass,  I  will  open  the 
door  and  light  a  lamp  in  my  little  parlor.  Even  if  you  prefer 
to  remain  in  the  porch,  it  will  look  more  cheerful."  And, 
without  waiting  for  her  reply,  he  took  a  key  from  his  pocket, 
and  let  himself  into  the  house. 

Their  voices  had  disturbed  the  owners  of  the  cottage,  and 
Phillis  overheard  the  following  colloquy: 

"  Dear  sakes  alive!  what  a  frightful  storm!  Is  there  any- 
thing vou  want,  Mr.  Dancy?"  in  Mrs.  Williams's  shrill  tones. 
"  Not  for  myself,  Mrs.  Williams;  but  there  is  a  young  lady 
sheltering  in  the  porch.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  could  come 
down  and  make  her  a  little  comfortable.  The  flood-gates  of 
heaven  seem  open  to-night." 

"  Dear,  dear!"  in  a  still  more  perplexed  voice;  "  a  young 
lady  at  this  time  of  night — why,  it  must  be  half  after  nine! 
Very  well,  Mr.  Dancy;  beg  her  to  come  in  and  sit  in  your 
parlor  a  moment,  and  1  will  be  down." 

But  Phillis  absolutely  refused  to  comply  with  the  invitation. 
"  1  am  not  tired,  and  I  am  not  a  bit  wet,  and  I  like  watch- 
ing the  rain.     This  is  a  nice  little  porch,  and  1  have  taken 
refuge  here  before.     We  all  know  Mrs.  Williams  very  well." 

"  She  is  a  good  creature,  if  she  were  not  always  in  a  bustle," 
returned  Mr.  Dancy.  "  There,  the  lamp  is  lighted;  that  looks 
more  comfortable."  And  as  he  spoke  he  tame  out  into  the 
little  hall. 

Phillis  stole  a  curious  glance  at  him. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  and  was  dressed  somewhat  strangely.  A 
long  foreign-looking  cloak,  and  a  broad-brimmed  felt  hat, 
which  he  had  not  yet  removed,  gave  him  tiie  look  of  an  artist; 
but,  except  that  he  had  a  beard  and  a  mustache,  aud  wore 
blue  spectacles,  she  could  not  gain  the  slightest  clew  to  his 
features.  But  his  voice — it  pleased  Phillis's  sensitive  ear  more 
every  moment;  it  was  pleasant — rather  foreign,  too — and  had 
a  sad  ring  iu  it. 


830  NOT    LXKt   OtHER    CURLS. 

He  leaned  against  the  wall  opposite  to  her,  and  looked  out 
thoughtfully  at  the  driving  rain. 

"  I  think  I  saw  you  coming  out  from  the  White  House/*  he 
observed,  presently.  "  Are  you  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Cheyne?  I 
hope,"  hesitating  a  little,  "  that  she  is  very  well." 

"  Do  you  know  her?"  asked  Phillis,  in  surprise. 

"  That  is  a  very  Irish  way  of  answering  my  question;  but 
you  shall  have  your  turn  first.  Yes;  I  used  to  know  her 
many  years  ago,  and  Herbert  Cheyne,  too." 

"  Her  poor  husband!  Oh!  and  did  you  like  him?"  rather 
breathlessly. 

"  Pretty  fairly,"  was  the  indifferent  reply.  "  People  used 
to  call  him  a  pleasant  fellow,  but  I  never  thought  much 
of  him  myself— not  but  what  he  was  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning,  poor  devil.  Anyhow,  he  paid  dearly  enough  for  his 
faults." 

"  Yes,  indeed;  and  one  must  always  speak  leniently  of  the 
dead. " 

"  Ah,  that  is  what  they  say — that  he  is  dead.  I  suppose  his 
widow  put  on  mourning,  and  made  lamentation.  She  is  well, 
you  say,  and  cheerful?" 

"  Oh,  no!  neither  one  nor  the  other.  I  am  not  her  friend; 
I  only  know  her  just  a  littie;  but  she  strikes  me  as  very  sad. 
She  has  lost  her  children,  and — " 

*'  Ah!"  Phillis  thought  she  had  heard  a  strange  sound, 
almost  like  a  groan;  but  of  course  it  was  fancy;  and  just  then 
good  Mrs.  Williams  came  bustling  down-stairs. 

"  Dear  heart!  why,  if  it  is  not  Miss  Challoner!  To  think 
of  you.  my  dear  miss,  being  out  so  late,  and  alone!  Oh,  what 
ever  will  your  ma  say?" 

"  Mv^  mother  will  scold  me,  of  course,"  returned  Phillis, 
langliitig;  "  but  you  must  not  scold  me  too,  Mrs.  Williams, 
though  I  deserve  all  I  get.  Miss  Mewlstone  sent  Evans  with 
me,  but  I  made  him  go  back.  Country  girls  are  fearless,  and 
it  is  only  just  a  step  to  tlie  P^-iary. " 

*'  The  rain  is  stopping  now,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  escort 
you.  Mrs,  Williams  will  be  the  voucher  for  my  respectabil- 
ity," observed  Mr.  Dancy,  very  gravely  and  without  a  smilej 
and,  as  Pnillis  seemed  inclined  to  put  him  off  with  an  excuse, 
he  continued,  more  seriously:  "Pardon  me,  but  it  is  far  too 
late,  and  the  road  far  too  lonely  for  a  young  lady  to  go  unat- 
tended. If  you  prefer  it  1  will  go  to  the  VVhite  House,  and 
bri'ig  out  the  recreant  Evans  by  force." 

"  Oh,  no!  there  is  no  need  for  that," observed  Phillis,  hast- 
ily; and  Mrs.  Williams  interposed  volubly: 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS.  231 

**  Goorliieas'  sakes.  Miss  Cliallnuer,  you  have  no  call  to  be 
afraiil  of  Mr.  Daiicy!  Wliy,  Mr.  Frank  Blunt,  tliat  nice  young 
gentleman  vvlio  lodged  vviih  tne  ever  so  aiauy  years,  recom- 
mended him  to  me  as  one  of  his  best  and  oldest  friends.  Your 
ma  kuesv  Mr.  Blunt,  for  he  was  here  with  her,  aud  a  uicer- 
spokeii  young  geiitlemau  she  said  she  never  saw," 

"That  will  do,  Mrs.  Williams,"  returned  Mr.  Dancy,  in 
rather  a  peremptory  tone;  and  then,  turning  to  Phillis,  he  said, 
more  civilly,  but  still  a  little  abruptly,  as  though  he  were  dis- 
pleased : 

"  Well,  Miss  Challoner,  do  you  feel  inclined  to  trust  your- 
self with  me  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  or  shall  I  fetch  Evans?'* 
And  Phillis,  feeling  herself  rebuked,  unfurled  her  umbrella 
at  once,  aud  bade  Mrs.  Williams  good-night  by  way  of  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MRS.  Williams's  lodger. 

Phillis  felt  rather  shy  and  uncomfortable  as  she  picked 
her  way  warily  among  the  rain-pools  in  the  semi-darkness. 
Her  companion  was  inclined  to  be  silent;  most  likely  he  con- 
sidered her  churlish  in  repelling  his  civil  offers  of  help;  so,  to 
make  amends,  aud  set  herself  at  her  ease,  she  began  to  talk  to 
him  with  an  attempt  at  her  old  sprightliness. 

"  Do  you  know  this  neighborhood  well,  Mr.  Dancy?  Have 
you  been  long  at  Ivy  Cottage?" 

"  Only  a  few  days;  but  I  know  the  place  well  enough,"  he 
responded,  quietly.  "  It  depends  upon  circumstances  how 
long  I  remain  here.'* 

"  Hadleigh  is  very  quiet,"  returned  Pnillis,  quickly.  "  It 
does  not  offer  many  attractions  to  strangers  unless  they  have 
very  moderate  views  of  enjoyment.  It  is  select,  and  bathing 
is  good,  and  the  country  tolerable;  but  when  you  have  said 
that  you  have  said  all  in  its  favor." 

"  I  have  always  liked  the  place,"  with  a  checked  sigh. 
"  Quiet — that  is  what  I  want,  and  rest  also.  I  have  been 
rather  a  wanderer  over  the  face  uf  the  earth,  and  one  wants  a 
little  breathing-time  occasionally  to  recruit  one's  exhausted 
energies.  I  like  Ivy  Cottage,  aud  I  like  Mrs.  Williams;  both 
suit  me  for  the  present.  Are  you  a  visitor  to  Hadleigh — a 
mere  bird  of  passage  like  myself.  Miss  Challoner?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!  we  have  come  here  to  live." 

"  And — and  you  are  intimate  with  Mrs.  Cheyne?"  coming 
a  little  closer  to  her  side  in  the  darkness. 


233  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS, 


it 


"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  Phillis:  "  we  are  mere  aG. 
quaintaiices.  1  do  not  feel  to  know  her  at  all;  she  is  not  a 
person  with  whom  one  could  get  intimate  all  at  once;  she  is  a 
little  difficult.  Besides,  in  our  position — "  And  here  she 
pulled  herself  up  suddenly. 

"  Pardon  me,"  returned  Mr.  Dancy,  in  an  interested  voice, 
"  perhaps  I  have  no  right  to  inquire,  but  your  words  are  a  lit- 
tle mysterious.  Why  should  you  not  be  intimate  with  Mrs. 
Cheyne?'' 

Phillis  grew  hot  in  the  darkness.  What  right  had  he,  a 
perfect  stranger,  to  question  her  so  closely?  And  yet,  if  he 
were  interested  in  his  old  friends,  perhaps  he  meant  to  call  at 
the  White  House,  and  then  he  would  hear  all  about  them;  and, 
after  all,  perfect  frankness  always  answered  best  in  the  long 
run.  Phillis  hesitated  so  long  over  her  rejoinder  that  Mr. 
Dancy  said,  rather  apologetically: 

"  1  see  I  have  been  incautious;  but  you  must  not  attribute 
my  question  to  impertinent  curiosity.  I  am  anxious  to  learn 
all  I  can  about  a  very  old  friend,  of  whom  I  have  long  lost 
sight,  and  I  hoped  that  you  might  have  been  able  to  satisfy 


me. 


Miss  Middleton  would  tell  you  far  more  than  I." 

"  What!  Elizabeth  Middleton?  Oh,  no:  she  is  far  too 
much  of  a  saint  for  me." 

"  You  know  her,  too!"  exclaimed  Phillis,  in  surprise. 
*'  ISIo,  1  do  not  think  you  are  curious,  Mr.  Dancy;  it  was  only 
a  little  awkward  forme  to  tell  you  about  our  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Oheyne.  My  sister  and  f  rendered  her  a  trifling  service, 
and  she  took  a  fancy  to  us,  and  wished  to  be  friends;  but  in 
our  present  position  any  close  intimacy  would  be  impossible, 
as  we  are  only  dress-makers." 

"  Dress-makers!"  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  genuine 
astonishment,  almost  dismay,  in  Mr.  Dancy's  voice.  "  Dress- 
makers! Pardon  me,  Miss  Challoner,  but  when  one  has  seen 
and  spoken  to  a  lady  like  yourself,  it  is  almost  incredible." 

This  put  Phillis  on  her  mettle  at  once,  and  in  a  moment  she 
laid  bv  all  her  reserve. 

"  You  have  been  a  traveler,  Mr.  Dancy,  and  must  have 
seen  strange  things  by  this  time.  It  surely  can  not  be  such  a 
matter  of  surprise  that  when  gentlepeople  are  poor  they  must 
work  for  their  bread.  When  one  has  ten  clever  fingers,  it  is 
better  to  use  them  than  to  starve.  1  am  not  ashamed  of  my 
position;  my  sisters  and  1  are  very  independent;  but,  as  we 
do  not  like  to  cause  other  people  embarrassment,  we  prefer  to 
lead  hermit  lives," 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  ^3^ 

Phillis's  silvery  tones  were  rather  fierce,  but  it  was  well  that 
she  did  Lot  see  her  conipauioii's  expression  of  suppressed 
amusement;  there  was  a  little  smothered  laugh,  too,  ihut  was 
turned  into  a  cough. 

"  Are  your  sisters  young  like  yourself?"  he  asked,  rather 
abruptly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  are  all  much  of  an  age." 

"  And  you  have  parents?" 

"  Only  one  parent,"  she  corrected — "  a  mother.  Ah,  here 
we  are  at  the  Friary!  Many  thanks  for  your  escort,  Mr. 
Dancy. " 

"  Many  thanks  for  allowing  me  to  escort  you,"  he  returned, 

Eointedly:  "after  what  you  have  told  me,  1  esteem  it  an 
onor,  Miss  Challoner.  No,  you  have  no  need  to  be  ashamed 
of  your  position;  1  wish  more  English  ladies  would  follow  such 
a  noble  example.  Good-nigbt.  1  trust  we  shall  meet  again." 
And,  lifting  his  felt  hat,  he  withdrew,  just  as  Nan  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  holding  a  lamp  in  her  hand. 

"  You  naughty  girl,  what  has  kept  you  so  late?"  she  asked, 
as  Phillis  came  slowly  and  meditatively  up  the  flagged  path. 

*'  Hush,  Nannie!  Have  they  all  gone  to  bed?  Let  me 
come  into  your  room  and  talk  to  you.  Oh,  1  have  had  such 
an  evening!"  And  thereupon  she  poured  into  her  sister's 
astonished  ears  the  recital  of  her  adventure — the  storm,  the 
figure  in  the  shrubbery,  the  scene  in  the  west  corridor,  the 
porch  at  Ivy  Cottage,  and  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Williams's  mys- 
terious lodger. 

"  Oh,  Phillis,  1  shall  never  trust  you  out  of  my  sight  again! 
How  can  you  be  so  reckless — so  incautious?  Mother  would 
be  dreadfully  shocked  if  she  knew  it." 

"Mother  must  not  know  a  single  word:  promise.  Nan. 
You  know  how  nervous  she  is.  1  will  tell  her,  if  you  like, 
that  I  took  refuge  from  the  rain  in  Mrs.  Williams's  porch,  and 
that  her  lodger  walked  home  with  me;  but  I  think  it  would  be 
better  to  suppress  the  scene  at  the  White  House." 

Nan  thought  over  this  a  moment,  and  then  she  agreed. 

"  It  would  make  mother  feel  uneasy  and  timid  in  Mrs. 
Cheyne's  presence,"  she  observed.  "  She  never  likes  that 
sort  of  hysterical  attacks.  We  could  not  make  her  under- 
stand. Poor  thing!  I  hope  she  is  asleep  by  this  time.  Shall 
you  go  to-morrow,  Phil,  and  ask  after  her?" 

Phillis  made  a  wry  face  at  this,  and  owned  she  had  had 
enough  adventures  to  last  her  for  a  long  time.  But  she  ad- 
mitted, too,  that  she  would  be  anxious  to  know  how  Mrs. 
Cheyne  would  be. 


234  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  must  go  and  just  ask  after  her  "  she  said, 
as  she  rose  rather  wearily  aud  lighted  her  caudle.  "  There  is 
not  the  least  chance  of  my  seeing  her.  Good-night,  Nannie! 
Don't  let  all  this  keep  you  awake;  but  I  do  not  expect  to  sleep 
a  wink  myself.'' 

Which  dismal  prophecy  was  not  fulfilled,  as  Phillis  dropped 
into  a  heavy  slumber  the  moment  her  head  touched  the  pillow. 

But  her  dreams  were  hardly  pleasant.  She  thought  she  was 
walking  down  the  "  Ghost's  Walk,"  between  the  yews  and 
cypresses.,  with  Mr.  Dancy,  and  that  in  the  darkest  part  he 
threw  off  his  cloak  and  felt  hat,  and  showed  the  grinning  skull 
of  a  skeleton,  while  a  bony  arm  tried  to  seize  her.  She  woke 
moaning  with  fright,  to  find  Dulce's  long  hair  streaming  over 
her  face,  and  the  birds  singing  in  the  sweet  breezy  dawn;  after 
which  she  fell  into  a  dreamless,  refreshing  sleep. 

Phillis  had  to  submit  to  rather  a  severe  reproof  from  her 
mother  in  return  for  her  frankness.  Mrs.  Challoner's  prud- 
ery was  up  in  arms  the  moment  she  heard  of  Mrs.  Williams's 
lodger. 

"  Mrs.  Williams  ought  to  have  come  with  you  herself;  but 
a  strange  man  at  that  time  of  night — what  would  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  have  said  to  you?" 

"  Whatever  Mr.  Drummond  liked  to  say!"  returned  Phillis, 
pettishly,  for  this  was  stroking  her  already  ruffled  feelings  de- 
cidedly the  wrong  way. 

Phillis  always  turned  captious  whenever  Mr.  Drummond 
was  mentioned;  but  she  subsided  into  meekness  again  when 
her  mother  fell  to  crying  and  bemoaning  her  hard  fate  and  her 
darlings'  unprotected  position. 

"Oil,  what  would  your  dear  father  have  said?"  she  cried, 
in  such  utter  misery  of  tone,  that  Phillis  began  kissing  her, 
and  promising  that  she  would  never,  never  be  out  so  late  again, 
and  that  on  no  account  would  she  walk  up  the  Braid  wood  Road 
in  the  evening  with  a  strange  man  who  wore  an  outlandish 
cloak  and  a  felt  hat  that  only  wanted  a  feather  to  remind  her 
of  Guy  Fawkes,  only  Guy  Fawkes  did  not  wear  blue  spectacles. 

When  Phillis  had  at  last  soothed  her  mother— always  a 
lengthy  process,  for  Mrs.  Challoner,  like  other  sensitive  and 
feeble  natures,  could  only  be  quieted  by  much  talk — she  fell 
to  her  work  in  vigorous  silence;  but  by  a  stroke  of  ill  luck, 
Mr.  Drummond  chose  to  make  another  pastoral  visitation;  and, 
to  her  secret  cnagrin,  her  mother  at  once  repeated  the  whole 
story. 

Mrs.  Williams's  lodger  saw  Miss  Phillis  home  I     Why,  I 


(( 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  235 

did  not  know  Mrs.   Williams  had  a  lodger/'  returned  Mr. 
Druuimond,  iu  a  perplexed  voice. 

This  made  matters  worse. 

"  1  suppose  Mrs.  Williams  is  uot  bound  to  let  the  vicarage 
know  directly  she  lets  her  rooms?"  observed  Phillis,  rather 
impatiently;  for  she  was  vexed  with  her  mother  for  repeating 
all  this. 

*'  No,  of  course  not;  but  1  was  at  Ivy  Cottage  myself  yes- 
terday, and  Mrs.  Williams  knows  I  always  call  on  her  lodgers, 
and  she  never  mentioned  the  fellow's  existence  to  me." 

"Fellow,  indeed!"  observed  Phillis,  softo  voce  j  for  she  had 
a  vivid  rememb'ance  of  the  stranger's  commanding  presence 
and  pleasant  voice. 

"  When  did  he  come?"  inquired  the  young  vicar,  cuiiously. 
"He  must  keep  himself  pretty  close  by  daylight;  for  I  have 
passed  and  repassed  Ivy  Cottage  at  least  half  a  dozen  times  a 
day,  and  have  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  any  one;"  to  which 
Phillis  replied,  reluctantly,  that  he  had  not  been  there  long — 
that  be  wanted  rest  and  quiet,  and  was  most  likely  an  invalid. 

*'  And  bis  name  is  Dancy,  you  say?" 

Phillis  bowed.  She  was  far  too  much  taken  up  iu  her  work 
to  volunteer  uunecessary  words;  and  all  this  maternal  fuss  and 
fidget  was  odious  to  her. 

'*  Then  I  will  go  and  call  upon  him  this  very  afternoon," 
returned  Archie,  with  cheerful  alacrity.  lie  had  no  idea  that 
his  curiosity  on  the  subject  was  disagreeable  to  the  girl:  so  he 
and  Mrs.  Cballoner  discussed  the  matter  fully,  and  at  some 
length.  "  I  don't  like  the  description  of  your  mysterious 
stranger.  Miss  Challoner,"  he  said,  laughing,  as  he  stood  up 
to  take  his  leave.  "  When  novelists  want  to  paint  a  villain, 
they  generally  bring  in  a  long  cloak  and  beard,  and  sometimes 
a  disguising  pair  of  blue  spectacles.  Well,  I  will  catch  him 
by  dayligbt,  and  see  what  I  can  make  of  bim. " 

*'  You  may  disguise  a  face,  but  you  can  not  disguise  a 
voice,"  returned  Phillis,  bluntly.  "  I  do  uot  want  to  see  Mr. 
Dancy  to  know  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  true  man."  And 
this  speech,  that  piqued  Archie,  though  he  did  not  know  why, 
made  him  ail  the  more  bent  on  calling  on  Mrs.  Williams's 
lodger. 

But  Mr.  Drummond's  curiosity  was  destined  to  be  baffled. 
Mrs.  Williams  turned  very  red  wheu  she  heard  the  vicar "s  in- 
quiries. 

"  You  never  told  me  you  had  let  your  rooms,"  he  said,  re- 
proacbfuliy;  "  and  yet  you  know  X  always  make  a  practice  of 
calling  on  your  lodgers." 


236  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  'Deed,  and  it  is  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you,  too," 
returned  the  good  woman,  dropping  an  old-fashioned  courtesy; 
"  and  me  that  prizes  my  clergyman's  visits  and  thinks  no  end 
of  thjm!  But  Mr.  Dancy  he  says  to  me,  '  Now,  my  good  Mrs. 
Williams,  I  have  come  here  for  quiet — for  absolute  quiet;  and 
I  do  not  want  to  see  or  hear  of  any  one.  Tell  no  tales  about 
me,  and  leave  me  in  peace;  and  then  we  shall  get  on  together.' 
Aud  it  was  more  than  1  ventured  to  give  you  the  hint,  hearing 
him  speak  so  positive;  for  he  is  a  bit  masterful,  aud  no  mis- 
take." 

"  Well,  never  mind;  a  clergyman  never  intrudes,  and  I  will 
thank  you  to  take  Mr.  Dancy  my  card,"  returned  Archie,  im- 
patiently; but  his  look  of  assurance  soon  faded  when  Mrs. 
Williams  returned  with  her  lodger's  compliments,  and  he  was 
very  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Drummoud  for  his  civility,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  receive  visitors. 

Phillis  was  a  little  contrary  all  the  remainder  of  the  day; 
she  was  not  exactly  cross— all  the  Challoners  were  sweet-tem- 
pered— but  nothing  quite  suited  her.  Mrs.  Challoner  had  pro- 
posed going:  that  evening  into  the  town  with  her  youngest 
daughter  to  execute  some  commissions. 

Just  before  they  started,  Phillis  observed  rather  shortly  that 
she  should  call  at  the  V\''hite  House  to  make  inquiries  after  Mrs. 
Clieyne,  and  that  she  would  come  back  to  the  Friarv  to  felch 
Nan  for  a  country  walk.  "  It  I  do  not  appear  in  half  an  hour, 
you  must  come  in  search  of  me,"  finished  Phillis,  with  a 
naughty  curl  of  her  lip,  to  whiuh  Nan  with  admirable  tact  re- 
turned no  answer,  but  all  the  same  she  fully  intended  to  carry 
out  the  injunction;  for  Nan  had  imbibed  her  mother's  simple 
oLl-fashioned  notions,  and  a  lurking  dislike  of  Mrs.  Williams's 
lodger  had  already  entered  her  mind. 

As  Phillis  did  not  enjoy  her  errand,  she  put  on  the  best  face 
she  could,  and  hurried  down  tiie  Braid  wood  Road  as  though 
her  feet  were  winged  like  a  female  Mercury;  and  Mr.  Dancy, 
who  happened  to  be  looking  over  the  wire  blind  in  the  little 
parlor,  much  admired  the  girl's  free  swift  gait  as  she  sped 
down  the  avenue.  Evans,  the  young  footman,  admitted  her, 
and  conducted  her  at  once  to  the  drawing-room;  and  great 
was  Phillis's  surprise  and  discomposure  when  she  saw  Mrs. 
Clieyne  sitting  alone  reading  by  one  of  the  windows,  with  her 
greyhounds  grouped  around  her. 

She  started  slightly  at  the  announcement  of  Phillis's  name, 
and,  as  she  came  forward  to  greet  her,  a  dark  flush  crossed 
her  face  for  a  moment;  then  her  features  settled  into  their 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  237 

usual  impassive  calm,  ouly  there  was  markeJ  coldness  in  her 
voice: 

''  Good-evening,  Miss  Challoner;  you  have  chosen  a  fine 
evening  for  your  visit.  Let  me  beg  of  you  never  again  to  vent- 
ure to  the  White  House  in  such  a  storm.'' 

Phillis  stammered  out  something  about  hoping  that  she  v^as 
better,  but  she  interrupted  her  almost  abruptly: 

"  Much  better,  thank  you.  I  am  afraid  you  found  me  de- 
cidedly strange  yesterday.  I  had  what  people  call  a  nervous 
attack:  electricity  in  the  air,  a  brooding  storm,  brings  it  on. 
It  is  a  pity  one  should  be  so  childish  as  to  dread  thunder:  but 
we  are  oddly  constituted,  some  of  us."  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  as  thougli  to  dismiss  the  subject,  and  stroked  the 
head  of  the  greyhound  that  lay  at  her  feet. 

Poor  Phillis  found  her  position  decidedly  embarrassing.  To 
be  sure,  Miss  Meivlstone  liad  warned  her  of  the  reception  that 
she  might  expect;  but  all  the  same  she  found  it  very  unpleas- 
ant. She  must  not  abridge  her  visit  so  muuh  as  to  excite  sus- 
piL'ion;  aud  yet  it  seemed  impossible  to  carry  on  a  comfortable 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Cheyne  in  this  freezing  mood,  and,  as 
Phdiis  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  she  asked  after  Miss 
Mewlstone. 

"  Oh,  she  is  very  well,"  Mrs.  Cheyne  answered,  indiffer- 
ently. "  Nothing  ever  aih  Barby:  she  is  one  of  those  easy- 
going people  who  take  life  as  they  find  it,  without  fuss  and 
grumbling." 

"  1  think  she  is  very  nice  and  sympathetic,"  hazarded 
Phillis. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Mewlstone  has  a  feeling  heart,"  returned 
Mrs.  Cheyne;  but  she  said  it  in  a  sarcastic  voice.  "  We  have 
all  our  special  endowments.  Miss  Mewlstone  is  made  by  nat- 
ure to  be  a  moral  feather-bed  to  bteak  other  people's  awk- 
ward tumbles.  She  hinders  broken  bones,  aud  interposes  a 
soft  surface  of  sympathy  between  unlucky  folks.  There  is 
not  much  in  common  between  us,  but  all  the  same  old 
Barby  is  a  sort  of  necessity  to  me.  We  are  a  droll  household 
at  the  White  House,  Miss  Challoner,  are  we  not — Barby  and 
the  greyhounds  and  1? — oh,  quite  a  happy  family!"  And  ahe 
gave  a  short  laugh,  very  much  the  reverse  of  merriment. 

Phillis  began  to  feel  that  it  was  time  to  go. 

"  Well,  how  does  the  dress-making  progress?"  asked  her 
hostess,  suddenly.  "  Miss  Middleton  tells  me  the  Challoner 
tit  is  quite  the  rage  in  Hadleigh. " 

"  We  have  more  orders  than  we  can  execute,"  returned 
Phillis,  curtly. 


238  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

**  Humph!  that  sounds  promising.  I  hope  your  mother  is 
careful  of  you,  aud  forbids  any  expenditure  of  miduight  oil, 
or  you  will  be  reduced  to  a  thread-paper.  As  1  has^e  told  you, 
you  are  not  the  same  giil  that  you  were  when  you  came  to  the 
relief  of  my  injured  ankle.*' 

"  I  feel  tolerably  substantial,  thank  .you,"  returnee!  Phillis, 
ungraciously,  for,  in  common  with  other  girls,  she  hated  to 
be  pitied  for  her  looks,  and  she  had  a  notion  that,  Mrs.  Cheyne 
only  said  this  to  plague  her.  "  JMan  is  our  head  and  task- 
mistress.  We  leal  regular  lives,  have  stated  hours  f  r  work, 
take  plenty  of  exercise,  aud,  on  the  whole,  are  doing  as  well 
as  possible." 

"  There  speaks  the  Challoner  spirit.'* 

"  Oh,  yes;  that  never  fails  us.  But  now  Nan  will  be  wait- 
ing for  me,  and  I  only  just  called  to  inquire  aftt-r  you." 

"  And  you  did  not  expect  to  see  me.  Well,  come  again 
when  r  am  in  a  better  humor  for  conversation.  If  you  stay 
longer  now  I  might  not  be  sparing  of  my  sarcasms.  By  the 
bye,  what  has  become  of  our  young  vicar?  Tell  him  he  has 
not  CDiiverted  lae  yet,  and  I  quite  miss  his  pastoral  visits.  Do 
you  know,''  looking  so  keenly  at  Phillis  that  she  blushed  with 
annoyance,  "  a  little  bird  tells  me  that  our  pastor  has  under- 
taken the  supervision  of  the  Friary.  Which  is  it,  my  dear, 
that  he  is  trying  to  convert?" 

The  tone  and  manner  were  intolerable  to  Phillis. 

"1  don't  understand  you.  Mis.  Cheyne,"  she  returned, 
with  supeib  youthful  haughtiness.  "  Mr.  Drummond  is  a 
kind  neighbor,  and  so  is  Miss  Mattie.  You  may  keep  these 
insinuations  for  him,  if  you  will."  Then  she  would  have 
esuaped  without  another  glance  at  her  tormentor,  but  Mrs. 
Chi-yne  detained  her. 

"  There,  never  mind.  I  will  take  back  my  naughty  speech. 
It  was  rude  and  impertinent  of  me,  I  know  that.  But  1  like 
you  all  the  better  for  your  spirit;  and,  my  dear,  take  care  of 
yourself  and  your  pretty  sisters,  for  he  is  not  worthy  of  one  of 
you." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Cheyne!  for  shame!"  And  Phillis's  gray  eyes 
sparkled  with  lively  indignation. 

"  He  is  a  very  ordinary  good  man;  and  you  and  your  sisters 
are  real  metal,  and  worth  your  weight  in  gold.  There!  go 
away,  child;  and  come  and  see  me  again,  for  it  does  me  good 
to  torment  you!"  And  the  singular  woman  drew  the  girl 
into  her  arms  suddenly  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and  then 
pushed  her  away.  "  To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  but  not 
to-night,"  she  said,  hurriedly,     "i  should  make  you  cross 


5?0T    LTKE    OTfiER    GTRLS.  239 

fifty  times  if  you  stay  longer  to-night.'*  And  Phillis  was  too 
thankful  to  be  released  to  linger  any  longer;  but  her  cheeks 
were  burning  as  she  walked  down  the  avenue. 

"  Why  do  people  always  put  these  things  into  girls'  heads?" 
she  said  to  herself.  "  A  young  man  can  not  come  into  the 
house,  can  not  say  pleasant  words,  or  do  kind,  neighborly 
actions,  but  one  must  at  once  attribute  motives  of  this  kind. 
1  have  not  been  free  from  blame  myself  in  this  matter,  for  1 
have  feared  more  than  once  that  Nan's  sweet  face  attracted 
him— poor  Mr.  Drummond!  I  hope  not,  for  he  would  not 
have  a  chance  against  Dick.  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  say  a 
word?  if  it  would  be  premature  or  unnecessary?  But  1  should 
hate  him  to  be  unhappy  "—here  Phillis  sighed,  and  then  threw 
up  her  head  proudly:  "  I  might  say  just  a  word,  mentioning 
Dick — for  he  does  not  know  of  his  existence.  I  wonder  if  he 
would  take  the  hint.  1  could  do  it  very  cleverly,  1  know.  I 
hate  to  see  people  burning  their  fingers  for  nothing:  1  always 
want  to  go  to  their  rescue.  He  is  tiresome,  but  he  is  very 
nice.  And,  heigh-ho!  what  a  crooked  world  we  live  in — 
nothing  goes  quite  straight  in  it."     And  Phillis  sighed  again. 

"  Miss  Challoner!"  The  voice  sounded  so  near  her  that 
Phillis  gave  a  great  start.  She  had  nearly  reached  the  gate, 
and  there  was  Mr.  Dancy  walking  beside  her,  just  as  though 
he  had  emerged  from  the  ground;  and  yet  Phillis  had  not 
heard  a  sound.  "Have  I  startled  you?"  he  continued, 
gravely.  *'  You  were  in  such  a  brown  study  that  I  had  to 
call  you  by  your  name  to  rouse  you.  There  is  nothing  wrong 
at  the  White  House,  I  hope?" 

"  Oh,  no!  Mrs.  Cheyne  is  better;  her  nervous  attack  has 
quite  passed  off." 

"  Magdalene  suffering  from  a  nervous  attack?"  and  then 
Mr.  Dancy  stopped,  and  bit  his  lip.  *'  Excuse  me,  I  knew 
her  before  she  was  married,  when  she  was  Magdalene  Daven- 
port—before she  and  poor  Herbert  Cheyne  unfortunately 
came  together.  I  doubt  whether  things  have  happened  for 
the  best;  there— 1  mean,"  as  Phillis  looked  at  him  in  some 
perplexity,  "  that  there  is  little  fear  of  her  being  an  inconsol- 
able widow." 

"  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing!"  returned  Phillis,  indig- 
nantly. "  That  is  the  way  with  you  men,  you  judge  bo 
harshly  of  women.  Mrs.  Cheyne  is  singular  in  her  ways. 
She  wears  no  mourning,  and  yet  a  more  unhappy  creature 
never  existed  on  this  earth.  Not  inconsolable — and  yet  no 
one  dares  speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  her,  so  great  is  her 


misery. " 


^40  KOT    LIKE    OTHKR    GIRLS. 

"  Excuse  me  one  moment;  I  have  been  ill,  and  am  still  sub- 
ject to  fits  of  giddiness.  A  mere  vertigo;  nothing  more." 
But  he  said  the  word  gasping  for  breath,  and  looked  so  deathly 
pale  that  Phillis  felt  quite  frightened  as  she  stood  beside  him. 

They  had  been  walking  a  few  steps  down  the  Braidwood 
Road,  and  Phillis  had  looked  out  anxiously  for  Nan  who  had 
not  yet  appeared  in  sight.  But  now  Mr.  Dancy  had  come  to 
an  abrupt  pause,  and  was  leaning  for  support  against  the  low 
wall  that  shut  in  the  grounds  of  the  White  House.  Phillis 
looked  at  him  a  little  curiously,  in  spite  of  her  sympathy.  He 
still  wore  his  loose  cloak,  though  the  evening  was  warm;  but 
he  had  loosened  it,  and  taken  off  his  felt  hat  for  air. 

In  figure,  he  was  a  tall,  powerful-looking  man,  only  thin 
and  almost  emaciated,  as  though  from  recent  illness.  His 
features  were  handsome,  but  singularly  bronzed  and  weather- 
beaten,  as  though  from  constant  exposure  to  sun  and 
wind;  and  even  the  blue  spectacles  could  not  hide  a  pair  of 
keen  blue  eyes.  By  daylight  Phillis  could  see  that  his  brown 
beard  and  mustache  were  tinged  with  gray,  and  the  hair  on  the 
temples  was  almost  white;  and  yet  he  seemed  still  in  the 
prime  of  life.  It  was  a  far  handsomer  face  than  Archie 
Drummond's;  but  the  deep  lines  and  gray  hair  spoke  of 
trouble  more  than  age,  and  one  thing  especially  impressed 
Phillis — the  face  was  as  refined  as  the  voice. 

If  Mr.  Dancy  were  aware  of  her  close  scrutiny,  he  took  no 
notice  of  it.  He  leaned  liis  arm  against  the  wall  and  rested 
his  head  against  it;  and  the  thin  brown  hand  was  plainly  vis- 
ible, with  a  deep  red  scar  just  above  the  wrist. 

And  Phillis  regarded  it  with  sudden  horror,  wondering  what 
had  inflicted  it,  he  suddenly  aroused  himself  with  an  apology: 

"  There!  it  has  passed:  it  never  lasts  long.  Shall  we  walk 
on?  I  am  so  ashamed  of  detaining  you  in  this  way;  but  when 
a  man  has  had  a  sunstroke — " 

"Oh,  that  is  sad!"  returned  Phillis,  in  a  sympathizing 
voice.  "  Is  that  why  you  keep  in-doors  so  much  in  the  day- 
light? at  least" — correcting  herself  in  haste,  for  she  had 
spoken  without  thought — "  one  never  sees  you  about,"  which 
was  a  foolish  speech,  and  showed  she  took  notice  of  his  move- 
ments; but  she  could  not  betray  Mr.  Drummond. 

"  Some  one  else  only  cornea  out  in  the  evening,"  he  re- 
joined, rather  pointedly.  "  Who  told  you  I  kept  in-doors  in 
the  duylight?  Oh,  I  know!"  the  frown  passing  from  his  face, 
for  he  had  spoken  quickly  and  in  an  annoyed  fashion.  "  This 
f\ounds  like  a  parson's  prating;  1  know  the  language  of  old« 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  241 

By  the  bye,  did  you  set  the  clergy  on  mv  track?"  turning  the 
blue  spectacles  full  on  the  embarrassed  Philiis. 

"1?  no  indeed!"  and  then  she  went  on  frankly:  "Mr. 
Drummond  was  at  our  house,  and  he  told  us  ihat  he  always 
called  on  Mrs.  Williams's  lodgers.*' 

"  True,  Miss  Challoner;  but  how  did  his  reverence  know 
Mrs.  Williams  had  a  lodger?" 

This  was  awkward,  but  Philiis  steered  her  way  through  the 
difficulty  with  her  usual  dexterity. 

"  I  mentioned  to  my  mother  that  you  were  kind  enough  to 
see  me  home,  and  she  repeated  the  faot  to  Mr.  Drummond." 

"  Thank  you.  Miss  Challoner;  now  I  understand.  1  won- 
der if  your  mother  would  be  very  shocked  if  a  stranger  in- 
truded upon  her?  but  you  and  I  must  have  some  more  con- 
versation together,  and'l  do  not  sue  how  it  is  to  be  mtinaged 
in  accordance  with  what  you  ladies  call  les  convenances." 

"My  mother — "  began  Philiis,  demurely;  and  then  she 
paused,  and  looked  up  at  him  in  asloni»hmeut.  "  What,  Mr. 
i)ancy!  you  purpose  to  call  on  my  mother,  and  yet  you  re- 
fused Mr.  Drummond's  visit?"  for  the  news  of  Archie's  defeat 
had  already  reached  the  Friary  through  Miss  Mattie. 

Mr.  Dancy  seemed  rather  nonplused  at  this,  and  then  he 
laughed : 

"  Ah,  you  are  shrewd,  Miss  Challoner;  there  is  no  deceiv- 
ing you!  I  have  see  Mr.  Drummond  pass  and  repass  often 
enough;  and — pardon  me,  if  he  be  a  friend— I  thnughl  from 
the  cut  of  his  coat  that  he  was  a  prig,  and  1  have  a  horror  of 
clerical  prigs." 

"  He  is  not  priggish  in  the  least,"  was  Phillis's  annoyed  re- 
joinder. 

"  No?  Well,  appearances  are  sometimes  deceptive;  perhaps 
1  was  too  hasty  in  my  dread  of  being  bored.  But  here  comes 
your  sister,  I  think — at  least,  I  have  seen  you  together:  so  I 
am  leaving  you  in  good  hands. "  And,  before  Philiis  could 
reply,  he  had  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  away,  just  as  Nan, 
whose  vigilant  eyes  were  upon  him,  was  hurrying  Lo  join  her 
sister. 

"  Oh,  Philiis,  was  that  Mr.  Duncy?"  she  asked;  in  a  re- 
proachful voice,  as  she  hurried  up  to  her. 

"  Yes,  Nannie,  it  was  Mr.  Dancy,"  returned  Philiis,  com- 

fosedly;  "  and  1  wish  I  could  have  introduced  him  to  you,  for 
belie«fe  he  is  coming  to  call  on  mother."  And,  when  she 
had  related  'his  astounding  piece  of  intelligence,  she  looked  in 
Nan's  face  and  laughed,  and,  in  high  good  humor,  proceeded 
to  relate  their  couversaLion. 


34§  NOT    LIKE    OftiER    GIRLl. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

**  NOW   WE   UNDERSTAND  EACH  OTHER." 

One  fine  morning  in  September,  Mr.  Drummond  was  stand- 
ing at  the  back  of  Milner's  Library,  turning  over  the  last  new 
assortment  of  booiis  from  Mudie,  when  two  gentlemen  entered 
the  shop. 

Strangers  were  always  interesting  to  Archie,  and  he  criti- 
cised them  under  a  twofold  aspect — pastoral  and  social.  In 
this  way  curiosity  becomes  a  virtue,  and  a  man  with  a  mission 
is  not  without  his  interests  in  life.  Hadleigh  was  Mr.  Drum- 
mond's  sheep-walk,  where  he  shepherded  his  lambs,  and  looked 
after  his  black  sheep  and  tried  to  wash  them  white,  or,  in  de- 
fault of  that,  at  least  to  make  out  that  their  Heece  was  not  so 
sable  after  all:  so  he  now  considered  it  his  duty  to  leave  off 
turning  over  the  pages  of  a  seductive-looking  novel,  and  to 
inspect  the  strangers. 

They  were  both  dressed  in  tweed  traveling  costumes,  and 
looked  sunburned,  as  though  they  had  just  returned  from  a 
walking-tour.  The  elder  was  a  short,  wir}-  man,  with  a  shrewd 
face  andquiraical  eyes;  and  he  asked  in  a  sharp,  clipping  voice, 
that  was  not  free  from  accent,  for  the  last  number  of  the  local 
paper,  containing  lists  of  inhabitants,  visitors,  etc. 

Meanwhile,  the  younger  man  walked  about  the  shop,  whis- 
tling softly  to  himself,  as  though  he  had  a  fund  of  cheerful- 
ness on  hand  which  must  find  vent  somewhere.  When  he 
came  opposite  Archie,  he  took  a  brief  survey  of  him  in  a 
careless,  good-humored  fashion,  and  then  turned  on  his  heel, 
bestowing  a  very  cursory  glance  on  Miss  Masham,  who  stood 
shakiiig  her  black  ringlets  after  the  fashion  of  shop-women, 
and  waiting  to  know  the  gentleman's  pleasure. 

No  one  would  have  called  this  young  man  very  good  looking, 
unless  such  a  one  had  a  secret  predilection  for  decidedly  red- 
dish hair  and  a  sandy  mustache;  but  there  was  an  air  of  bon- 
hommie,  of  frank  kindness,  of  boyish  fun  and  pleasantry,  that 
attracted  even  strangers,  and  Archie  looked  after  him  with 
considerable  interest. 

"Oxford  cut,  father  and  son:  father  looks  rather  a  queer 
customer,"  thought  x\rchie  to  himself. 

"Dick,  come  here!  why,  where  is  that  fellow?"  suddenly 
exclaimed  the  elder  man,  beginning  to  put  on  his  eyeglasses 
very  nervously. 

**  Coming,  father.     AU  right:    wh&t  is  itl"  returned  the 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  2id 

imperturbable  Dick.  He  was  still  whistling  "  Twickeiihum 
Ferry,"  under  his  breath,  as  he  came  to  the  countei-aud  leuuid 
with  both  elbows  upou  it. 

"  Good  gracious,  boy,  what  does  this  mean?"  went  on  the 
other,  in  an  irritable,  perturbed  voice;  and  he  read  a  short  ad- 
vertisement,  written  in  a  neat,  lady-like  hand:  "  '  Drtss-mak- 
ing  undertakeo.  Terms  moderate,  and  all  orders  proui[)!ly 
executed.  Apply  to  the  Misses  Challoner,  the  F,iary, 
Braid  wood  Road.  Ladies  waited  upon  at  their  own  residences. ' 
What  the — "  he  was  about  to  aad  a  stronoer  term,  but,  in 
deference  to  Miss  Milner,  substituted— "  dickens  does  this 
mean,  Dick?" 

The  young  man's  reply  was  to  snatch  (he  paper  out  of  his 
father's  hand  and  study  it  intently,  wilh  his  elbows  still  on 
the  counter,  and  the  last  bar  of  "  Twickenham  Ferry  "  died 
away  uncompleted  on  his  lips;  and  if  any  one  could  ha^e  seen 
his  face  they  would  have  remarked  a  curious  redness  spread- 
ing to  his  forehead. 

"Nan's  handwriting,  by  Jovel"  he  muttered,  but  still  in- 
audibly;  and  then  he  stared  at  the  paper,  and  his  face  grew 
redder. 

*'  Well,  Dick,  can't  you  answer?  What  does  this  piece  of 
tomfoolery  mean — 'dress-making  undertaken — ladies  waited 
upon  at  Llitiir  own  residences  ?  Can  there  he  two  families  of 
Challoner,  and  two  Friaries?  and  why  don't  you  speak  and 
say  soniL'thing?" 

"  Because  1  know  as  little  as  yourself,  father,"  returned  the 
young  man,  without  lifting  his  head;  and  he  surreptitiously 
conveyed  the  paper  to  his  pocket.  "  Perhaps  this  lady,"  in- 
dicating Miss  Milner,  "  could  inform  us?" 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,"  observed  a  gentlemanly  voice  near 
them;  an  1,  looking  up,  Dick  found  himself  confronted  by  the 
young  clergyman.  '  I  overheard  your  inquiries,  and,  as  I  am 
acquainted  with  the  ladies  in  question,  I  may  be  able  to  satisfy 
you." 

_  "  1  should  be  extremely  obliged,  to  you  if  you  would  do  so, 
sir,"  returned  the  elder  man,  with  alacrity;  but  Dick  turned 
away  rather  ungraciously,  and  his  cheerful  face  grew  sullen. 

"  Confound  him!  what  does  he  mean  by  his  interference? 
Knows  them,  indeed!  such  a  handsome  beggar,  too — a  prig, 
one  can  see  that  from  the  cut;  of  his  clothes  and  beard  I'" — 
And  again  he  planted  his  elbows  on  the  counter,  and  began 
pulling  his  rough  little  stubblj  mustache. 

"If  you  are  referring  to  a  mother  and  three  daughters  who 
live  m  the  Friary  and  eke  out  a  scanty  income  by  takmg  m 


244  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

dress-making,  I  am  happy  to  say  1  know  them  well,*'  went  on 
Archie.  "  My  sisier  and  1  visit  at  the  cottage,  and  they  at- 
tend my  church;  and,  as  Miss  Milner  can  tell  you,  they  work 
hard  enough  all  the  six  days  of  the  week." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Drummond,  there  are  few  that  work  harder!'* 
broke  in  Miss  Milner,  volubly.  "  Such  pretty  creatures,  too, 
to  earn  their  own  living;  and  yet  they  have  a  bright  word  and 
a  smile  for  everybody!  Ever  since  Miss  Phillis  "  (here  Dick 
groaned)  "  made  that  blue  dress  for  Mrs.  Trimmings — she  is 
the  butcher's  wife,  and  a  dressy  woman,  though  not  flashy 
like  Mrs.  Squalls— they  have  been  quite  the  rage  in  Hadleigh. 
All  the  townspeople,  and  the  resident  gentry,  and  even  the 
visitors,  want  their  gowns  made  by  the  Miss  Challoners. 
Their  fit  is  perfect,  atid  they  have  such  taste.  And — "  But 
here  the  luckless  Dick  could  bear  no  more. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  addressing  his  bewil- 
dered father,  "  I  have  left  something  particular  at  the  hotel;  I 
must  just  run  and  fetch  it." 

Dick  did  uot  specifv  whether  it  was  his  handkerchief  or  hia 
cigar-case,  or  liis  purse,  of  which  he  stood  so  urgently  in  need; 
but  before  Mr.  Mayne  could  remonstrate  he  had  gone  out  of 
the  shop.  He  went  as  far  as  the  d  tor  of  the  hotel,  and  there 
he  seized  on  a  passing  waiter,  and  questioned  him  in  a  breath- 
less manner.  Having  obtained  his  information,  he  set  off  at 
a  walk  that  was  almost  a  run  through  the  town,  and  down  the 
Braid  wood  Road.  The  few  foot-passengers  l  hat  he  met  shrunk 
out  of  the  way  of  this  young  man;  for  he  walked,  lo  king 
mither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  as  though  he  saw  nothing 
before  him.  And  his  eyes  wore  gloomy,  and  he  did  not  whistle; 
and  the  only  words  he  said  to  himself  were,  "  Oh,  Nan,  never 
to  have  told  me  of  this!"  over  and  over  again. 

The  gate  of  (he  Friarv  stood  open,  for  a  small  boy  had  been 
washing  the  flags,  and  had  left  his  pail,  and  gone  off  to  play 
marbles  in  the  road  with  a  younger  brother.  Dick,  who  un- 
derstood the  bearings  of  the  case  at  once,  shook  his  fist  at  the 
truant  behind  his  back,  and  fhfii  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

lie  peeped  in  at  the  hall  door  first;  but  Dorothy  was  peel- 
ing [lotatoes  in  the  kitchen,  and  would  see  him  as  he  passed, 
go  lie  skirted  the  little  path  under  the  yews.  And  if  Dulce 
had  been  at  her  sewing  machine  as  usual,  she  would  have  seen 
him  at  once;  but  this  morning  the  machine  was  silent. 

A  few  steps  further  he  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  his  eyes  be- 
gan to  glisten,  and  he  pricked  up  his  ears  after  the  manner  of 
lovers;  for,  through  auopeu  window  just  behind  him  ho  could 


250T    LIKE    OTHER    GIEL8.  245 

hear  Nan's  voice,  sweet  and  musical,  reading  aloud  to  her  sis- 
ters. 

"  Oh,  the  darling!"  he  murmured,  and  composed  himself 
for  a  feiv  moments'  ecstasy,  for  no  doubt  she  was  reading  Ten- 
nyson, or  Barrett  Browning,  or  one  of  the  poetry  books  he  had 
given  her;  but  he  was  a  little  disappointed  when  he  found  it 
"was  prose. 

"  '  With  regard  to  washing-dresses,*  read  Nan,  in  her 
clear  tones,  '  cottons,  as  a  general  thing,  have  another  ma- 
terial made  up  with  them;  the  underskirt  may  be  of  foulard 
or  satin — '  " 

"  Oh.  I  dare  say!  What  nonsensical  extravagance!"  ob- 
served Phi  His. 

"  '  Or  the  bodice  of  surah,  satin,  cashmere  or  llama,  and  the 
skirt  of  cotton.  .  .  .  The  skirts  are  nearly  always  made  with 
single  box-plaits,  with  a  flat  surface  in  the  center,  and  a  flat 
band  of  trimming  is  often  stitched  on  at  about  five  inches  frnm 
the  edge  of  the  flounce.'  I  should  say  that  would  be  sweetly 
pretty,  dear:  we  might  try  it  for  Mrs.  Peulip's  dress.  And 
just  listen  to  a  little  more." 

"  1  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  blurted  out  Dick.  "  Oh, 
Kan!  Nan!  how  could  you  be  such  a  traitor — wa:;hing- Presses, 
indeed,  and  me  left  in  ignorance!"  And  there  was  Dick,  his 
face  glowing  and  indignant,  standing  in  the  window,  with 
Laddie  barking  furiously  at  him,  and  his  outstretched  hand 
nearly  touching  Nan. 

Phillis  and  Dulce  screamed  with  surprise,  being  young  and 
easily  excited;  but  Nan  only  said,  "  Oh,  Dii-k!"  very  family; 
and  her  sweet  face  grew  red  and  pale  by  turns,  and  her  fingers 
fluttered  a  little  in  his  grasp,  but  only  for  joy  and  the  sheer 
delight  of  seeing  him. 

As  for  Dick,  his  eyes  shone,  but  his  manner  was  masterful. 

"  Look  here!"  he  said,  drawing  Nan's  advertisement  from 
his  pocket;  '*  we  had  come  down  here  to  surprise  you  girls, 
ai]d  to  have  a  little  fun  and  tennis;  and  I  meant  to  have  treated 
you  to  the  public  ground  at  the  hotel,  as  I  knew  you  had  only 
a  scrubby  little  bit  of  lawn;  and  this  is  what  has  met  my  eyes 
this  morning!  You  have  deceived  mother  and  me;  you  have 
let  us  enjoy  our  holiday,  which  1  didn't  a  bit,  for  I  had  a  sort 
of  nasty  presentiment  and  a  heap  of  uncomfortable  thoughts; 
and  all  the  while  you  were  slaving  away  at  this  hideous  dress- 
making— I  wish  I  could  burn  the  whole  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail 
— and  never  let  us  know  you  wanted  anything.  And  you  call 
that  being  friends!" 

"  Yes,  and  the  best  of  friends,  too,"  responded  Phillis, 


£46  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

cheerfully,  for  Nan  was  too  much  crushed  by  all  this  eloquence 
to  answer.  "  Come  along,  Dulce!  don't  listen  any  more  to 
this  nonsense,  when  you  know  your  mother  is  wanting  us. 
Dick  is  all  very  well  when  he  is  in  a  good  humor,  but  time  and 
dress-making  wait  for  no  man."  And  the  young  hjijocrite 
drag:ged  the  unwilling  Dulce  away.  "  Can't  you  leave  them 
alone  to  come  to  an  understanding?"  whispered  Phillis  in  her 
ear,  when  they  got  outside  the  door.  "I  can  see  it  in  his 
eyes;  and  Nan  is  on  the  verge  of  crying,  she  is  so  upset  with 
surprise.  And,  you  goose,  where  are  jon  going  now?" 
"  To  mother.     Did  you  not  say  she  wanted  us?" 

"  Oh,  you  silly  child!"  returned  Phillis,  calmly:  "  does  not 
moiher  always  want  us?  One  must  say  what  comes  uppermost 
in  one's  mind  in  emergemies  of  this  sort.  But  for  me,  you 
would  have  sto^  d  there  for  an  hour  staring  at  them.  Mother 
is  out,  as  it  happens:  if  you  like  we  will  go  and  meet  her. 
Oh,  no,  I  forgot:  Dick  is  a  young  man,  and  it  would  not  be 
proper.  Let  us  go  into  the  kitchen  and  help  Dorothy. "  And 
away  ihev  went. 

"  Phillis  is  a  trump!"  thought  Dick,  as  he  shut  the  door. 
"  I  love  that  girl."  And  then  he  marched  up  to  Nan  and 
took  her  hands  boldly. 

"  N(-w,  Nan,  you  owe  me  amends  for  this;  at  least  you  will 
say  you  are  sorry." 

"  No,  Dick,"  Iianging  her  head,  for  she  could  not  face  his 
look,  he  was  so  masterful  and  determined  with  her,  and  so  un- 
like the  easy  Dick  of  old.  "I  am  not  a  bit  sorry:  I  would 
not  have  spoiled  your  holiday  for  worlds." 

"  My  holiday!  a  precious  holiday  it  was  without,  you!  A  lot 
of  stupid  climbing,  with  grinning  idiots  for  company.  Well, 
never  mind  that,"  his  wrathful  tone  changing  in  a  moment. 
"  So  you  kept  me  in  the  dark  just  for  my  own  good?'^ 

"  Yes,  of  course,  Dick.     What  an  unnecessary  question!" 

"  And  you  wanted  me.  Nan?" 

*'  Yes,"  very  faintly,  and  there  was  a  little  tear-drop  on  one 
of  Nan's  lashes. 

She  had  been  so  miserable — how  miserable  he  would  never 
know;  but  he  need  not  have  asked  her  that. 

"Oh,  very  well:  then  I  won't  bother  you  with  any  more 
questions.  Now  we  understand  each  other,  and  can  just  go 
to  business." 

Nan  looked  up  in  his  face  in  alarm.  She  anticipated  an- 
other lecture,  but  nothing  of  the  sort  came,  Dick  cleared  his 
throaty  got  a  little  red,  and  went  ou; 


IfOT    LTKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  ^4*? 

*'  7  say  gel  fie  our  business,  because  we  have  been  as  good  as 
engaged '^all  iliese  years.     You  know  you  belong  to  me,  Nan?" 

"  Yes,  Dick,"  she  returned,  obediently;  for  she  was  too 
much  taken  by  surprise  to  know  what  she  ought  to  say,  and 
the  two  words  escaped  from  her  almost  unconsciously. 

"  Tiiere  never  was  a  time  we  were  not  fond  of  each  other — 
ever  since  you  were  so  high,"  pointing  to  what  would  repre- 
sent the  height  of  an  extremely  dwarfish  infant  of  seven  or 
eight  months. 

"  Oh,  not  so  long  ago  as  that,"  returned  Nan,  laughing  a  lit- 
tle. 

"  Quite  as  long,"  repeated  Dick,  solemnly.  "  I  declare,  1 
have  been  so  fond  of  you  all  my  life,  Nau,  that  1  have  been 
the  happiest  fellow  in  the  world.  Now,  look  here:  just  say 
after  me,  '  Dick,  I  promise  on  my  word  and  honor  to  marry 
you.'" 

Nan  repeated  the  words,  and  then  she  paused  in  affright. 

"  But  your  father!"  she  gasped — '*  and  the  dress-makingi 
Oh,  Dick!  what  have  you  made  me  say?  You  have  startled 
me  into  forgetting  everything.  Oh,  dear!  what  shall  1  do?" 
continued  Nan,  in  the  most  innocent  way.  "  We  shall  be  en- 
gaged all  our  lives,  for  he  will  never  allow  you  to  marry  me. 
Dick,  dear  Dick,  please  let  me  off !  I  never  meant  to  give  in 
hke  this." 

"  Never  mind  what  you  meant  to  do,"  returned  Dick,  with 
the  utmost  gravity:  "  the  thing  is,  you  have  done  it.  On  your 
word  and  honor,  Nan,  remember.     Now  we  are  engaged." 

"  Oh,  but  Dick,  please  don't  take  such  advantage  of  me, 
just  because  1  said— or,  at  least,  you  said — I  was  fond  of  you. 
What  will  mother  say?  She  will  be  so  dreadfully  shocked; 
and  it  is  so  cruel  to  your  father.  I  will  be  engaged  to  you  in 
a  way.  1  will  promise — I  will  vow,  if  you  will — never  to 
marry  any  one  else." 

"I  should  think  not,"  interrupted  Dick,  fiercely.  "I 
would  murder  the  fellow,  whoever  he  was!"  and  in  spite  of 
himself,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  fair  beard  and  handsome 
face  of  the  young  clergyman. 

Nan  saw  from  his  obstinate  face  that  her  eloquence  was  all 
wasted;  but  she  made  one  more  attempt,  blushing  like  a  rose: 

"  I  will  even  promise  to  marry  you,  if  your  father  gives  his 
consent.     You  know,  Dick,  I  would  never  go  against  him.^* 

"  Nor  I.  You  ought  to  know  me  better,  Nan,  than  to 
think  1  should  act  shabbily  and  leave  the  dear  old  fellow  in  the 
dark." 


HB  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Then  you  will  set  me  free/'  marveling  a  little  over  hef 
lover's  good  sense  and  filial  submission. 

"As  free  as  an  engagement  permits.  Why,  what  do  you 
mean,  Nan?  Have  I  not  just  told  you  we  are  engaged 
for  good  and  all?  Do  you  suppose  I  do  not  mean  to  tell  my 
father  so  on  the  first  opportunity?  There  becomes!  bless  the 
man,  1  knew  he  would  follow  me!  Now  you  shall  see  how  I 
uao  stick  up  for  the  girl  I  love.'*  But  Dick  thought  it  better 
to  release  tbe  hand  he  had  been  holding  all  this  time. 

There  are  certain  moments  in  life  when  one  is  in  too  exalted 
a  mood  to  feel  the  usual  sensations  that  circumstances  might 
warrant.  At  another  time  Nan  would  have  been  shocked  at 
the  condition  of  her  work-room,  being  a  tidy  little  soul,  and 
thiifty  as  to  pins  and  other  odds  and  ends;  and  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Mayne  coming  upon  them  unexpectedly  would  have 
friglitened  her  out  of  her  senses. 

The  room  was  certainly  not  in  its  usual  order.  There  had 
been  much  business  transacted  there  that  morning.  The  table 
was  strewn  with  breadths  of  gay  hroche  silk;  an  unfinished 
gauzy-looking  dress  hung  over  a  chair;  the  door  of  the  ward- 
robe was  open,  and  a  row  of  dark-looking  shapes — like  Blue- 
beard's decapitated  wives — were  dimly  revealed  to  view.  A 
sort  of  lay  figure,  draped  in  calico,  was  in  one  corner.  As 
Nail  observed  to  Phillis  afterward,  "  There  was  not  a  tidy  cor- 
ner in  the  whole  room." 

Nevertheless,  the  presence  of  Dick  so  glorified  the  place  that 
Nan  looked  around  at  the  chaos  quite  calmly,  as  she  heard  Mr. 
Mayne's  sharp  vuice  first  inquiring;  for  her  mother  and  then 
for  herself.  Dorothy,  with  her  usual  tact,  would  have  shown 
him  into  the  little  parlor;  but  Nan,  who  wished  for  no  dis- 
guise, stepped  forward  and  threw  open  the  door. 

"  I  am  here,  Dorothy.  Come  in,  Mr.  Mayne.  Dick  is  here 
too,  and  1  am  so  sorry  mother  is  out/' 

"  I  might  have  known  that  scapegrace  would  have  given  me 
the  slip!"  muttered  Mr.  Mavne,  as  he  shook  hands  ungra- 
ciously with  Nan,  and  then  followed  her  into  the  work-room. 

Dick,  who  was  examining  the  wardrobe,  turned  round  and 
saluted  his  father  with  a  condescending  nod: 

"  You  were  too  long  with  the  parson:  I  could  not  wait,  you 
see.  Did  you  make  all  these  dresses,  Nan?  You  are  awfully 
clever,  you  girls!  They  look  first  rate — this  greeny-browny- 
yeilowish  one,  for  example,"  pulling  out  a  much  furbelowed 
garment  destined  for  Mrs.  Squails. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  do  please  leave  them  alone!"  and  Nan  author- 
itatively waved  him  away  and  closed  the  wardrobe. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIULS.  2i9 


t( 


I  was  only  arlrairing  your  handin^ork,"  returned  Dick, 
imperturbably,  "  Does  she  uot  look  a  charming  little  dress- 
maker, father?"  regarding  Nati  with  undisguised  pleasure,  as 
she  stood  in  her  pretty  bib-apron  before  them. 

But  Mr.  Mayue  only  drew  his  heavy  eyebrows  together  and 
said : 

"  Pshaw,  Dick!  don't  chatter  such  folly.  1  want  to  have 
some  talk  with  Miss  Xancy  myself." 

"  All  right:  I  have  had  my  innings,'*  returned  naughty 
Dick;  but  he  shot  a  look  at  Nan  that  made  her  blush  to  her 
finger-ends,  and  that  was  uot  lost  on  Mr.  Mayne. 

"  Well,  now,  Miss  Nancy,  what  does  all  this  mean?"  he 
asked,  harshly.  "  Here  we  have  run  down  just  in  a  friendly 
way — Dick  and  I — leaving  the  mother  rather  knocked  up  after 
her  travels  at  Longmead,  to  look  you  up  and  see  how  you  are 
getting  on.  And  now  we  find  you  have  been  deceiving  us  all 
along,  and  keeping  us  in  the  dark,  and  that  you  are  making 
yourselves  the  talk  of  the  place,  sewing  a  parcel  of  gowns  for 
all  the  towns- people. " 

Mr.  Mayne  did  not  add  that  his  son  had  so  bothered  him 
for  the  last  three  weeks  to  run  down  to  Badleigh  that  he  had 
acceded  at  last  to  his  request,  in  the  hope  of  enjoying  a  little 
peace. 

"  Draw  it  mild!"  muttered  Dick,  who  did  not  much  admire 
this  opening  tirade;  but  Kan  answered  with  much  dignity: 

"  If  people  talk  about  us  it  is  because  of  the  novelty.  They 
have  never  heard  of  gentlepeople  doing  this  sort  of  work  be- 
fore— " 

"  I  should  think  not!"  wrathfully  from  Mr.  Mayne. 

"  Things  were  so  bad  with  us  that  we  should  have  all  had 
to  separate  if  Phillis  had  not  planned  this  scheme;  and  then 
mother  would  have  broken  her  heart;  but  now  we  are  getting 
on  famously.  Our  work  gives  satisfaction,  we  have  plenty  of 
orders;  we  do  not  forfeit  people's  good  opinions,  for  we  have 
nothing  but  respect  shown  us,  and — " 

But  here  Mr.  Mayne  interrupted  her  flow  of  quiet  eloquence 
somewhat  rudely. 

"  Pack  of  nonsense!"  he  exclaimed,  angrily.  "  I  wonder 
at  your  mother — 1  do  indeed.  I  thought  she  had  more  sense. 
You  have  no  right  to  outrage  your  friends  in  this  way!  it  is 
treating  us  badly.  What  will  your  mother  say,  Dick?  She 
will  be  dreadfully  shocked.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  my  boy — 
I  am  indeed:  but,  under  the  circumstances — " 

But  what  he  was  about  to  add  was  checked  by  a  very  singu- 


250  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

lar  proceeding  on  the  part  of  his  sou;  for  Dick  suddenly  took 
Nan's  hand,  and  drew  her  forward. 

"  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  father;  I  am  the  happiest  fellow 
alive.  Nan  and  1  have  come  to  an  understanding  at  last, 
after  all  these  years.  Allow  me  to  present  to  you  the  future 
Mrs.  Richard.  Mayiie." 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DICK   THINKS   OF  THE  CITY. 

When  Dick  had  uttered  this  audacious  speech,  Mr.  Mayne 
started  back,  and  his  expression  of  mingled  wrath  and  dismay 
was  so  ludicrous  that  under  any  other  circumstances  his  son 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  keep  his  countenance. 

"  What!  what  I"  he  almost  shouted,  losing  all  sense  of  po- 
liteness, and  even  of  Nan's  presence;  "you  young  fool,  what 
do  you  mean  by  trumping  up  this  nonsense  and  presuming  to 
talk  to  me  in  this  way?" 

Dick  thought  it  prudent  to  drop  Nan's  hand — and,  indeed, 
the  girl  shrunk  away  from  them  both  in  alarm  at  this  out- 
burst: nevertheless,  his  countenance  and  bearing  maintained 
the  same  admirable  sang  froid  as  he  confronted  his  angry 
parent. 

"  Now,  father,  what  is  the  use  of  calling  me  names?  When 
a  fellow  is  of  age,  and  knows  his  own  mind,  he  does  not  care 
a  pin  for  being  called  a  fool.  '  Hard  words  break  no  bones,' 
as  our  copy-leaves  used  to  tell  us — no,  I  have  not  got  that 
quite  right,  but  that  is  about  my  meaning.  Look  here,  fa- 
ther," he  continued,  in  a  coaxing,  boyish  voice;  "  I  have  cared 
for  Nan  ever  since  she  was  a  little  creature  so  high,"  again 
reverting  to  the  infantile  measurement.  "  1  have  always 
meant  to  marry  her — that  is,  if  she  would  have  me,"  correct- 
ing himself,  as  Nan  drew  herself  up  a  little  proudly.  "  Money 
or  no  money,  there  is  not  another  girl  in  England  that  1  would 
have  for  a  wife.  I  would  wait  for  her  if  1  had  to  wait  half 
my  life,  just  the  same  as  she  would  wait  for  me;  and  so,  as  1 
said  before,  when  a  fellow  has  made  up  his  mind,  there  is  noth- 
ing more  to  say."  And  here  Dick  j^ursed  up  his  lips  for  a 
whistle,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and  fell  to  twisting  and  un- 
twisting the  ends  of  his  sandy  mustache. 

Nan's  downcast  eyes  revealed  nothing.  But  if  Dick  could 
ody  have  seen  the  happy  look  in  them!  What  eloquence 
ci^uld  ever  have  been  so  dear  to  her  as  that  clear  rougli-and- 
rPHdy  statement  of  her  lover's  feelings  for  her?  "  There  is 
X^K  another  girl  in  England  that  I  would  have  for  a  wife. "' 


i) 


iroT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  fl6l 

Could  anything  surpass  the  beauty  of  that  sentence?    Oh,  how 
manly,  how  true  he  was,  this  Dick  of  hers! 

"  Oh,  indeed!  I  am  to  say  nothing,  am  1?'*  returned  Mr. 
Mayne,  with  exquisite  irony.  "  My  son  is  to  dictate  to  me; 
and  I  am  to  be  silent!  Oh,  you  young  fool!"  he  mutteied 
under  his  breath;  but  then  for  the  moment  words  seemed  to 
fail  him. 

In  spite  of  the  wrath  that  was  boiling  within  him,  and  to 
which  he  did  not  dare  give  vent  in  Nan's  presence,  in  spite  of 
the  grief  anddisappoiutment  that  his  son's  defiance  had  caused 
him,  Dicii's  bearing  filled  him  with  admiration  and  amaze- 
ment. 

This  boy  of  his  was  worth  something,  he  thought.  He  had 
a  clear  head  of  his  own  and  could  speak  to  some  purpose. 
Was  a  likely  young  fellow  like  this  to  be  thrown  away  on  that 
Challoner  girl?  Poor  Nan!  Pretty  and  blooming  as  she 
looked,  Mr.  Mayne  felt  almost  as  though  he  hated  her.  Why 
had  she  come  between  his  boy  and  him?  Had  he  a  dozen 
sons,  that  he  could  spare  one  of  them?  Was  not  Dick  his 
only  one — the  son  of  his  right  hand,  his  sole  hope  and  ambi- 
tion? Mr.  Mayne  could  have  wept  as  these  thoughts  passed 
through  his  mind. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Nan  thought  it  right  to  speak. 
Dick  had  had  his  say,  but  it  was  not  for  her  to  be  silent. 

"  Mr.  Mayne,  please  listen  to  me  a  moment,"  she  said, 
pleadingly.  "  No;  I  must  speak  to  your  father,"  as  Dick, 
much  alarmed,  tried  to  silence  her.  "  He  must  not  think 
hard  things  of  us,  and  misunderstand  us." 

"  No,  dear;  indeed  you  had  better  be  silent!"  implored 
Dick,  anxiously;  but  Nan  for  once  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  him. 

"I  must  speak,"  she  persisted.  "  Mr.  Mayne,  it  is  quite 
true  what  Dick  says:  we  have  been  together  all  our  lives,  and 
have  grown  to  care  for  each  other.  1  can  not  remember  the 
time,"  the  tears  coming  into  her  bright  eyes,  "  when  Dick 
was  not  more  to  me  than  a  brother;  it  is  all  of  such  long 
standing,  it  is  far,  far  too  late  to  stop  it  now." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that,  Miss  Nancy,"  muttered  Mr. 
Mayne,  between  his  teeth;  but  the  girl  did  not  seem  to  hear 
him. 

"  Dick  took  me  by  surprise  just  now.  I  ought  to  have  been 
more  on  my  guard,  and  not  have  given  him  that  promise." 

"  What  promise?"  demanded  Mr.  Mayne,  harshly;  and  Nan 
hung  her  head,  and  returned,  shyly: 

"  That  I  would  marry  him  some  time;  but,  indeed — indeed 
he  made  me  say  it,  and  1  was  so  taken  by  surprise.     No,  Dick; 


259  Kot  UKt  oftitn  girls. 

you  must  let  me  finish/'  for  Dick  was  looking  at  her  with 
piteous  entreaty  in  his  eyes.  "  I  know  we  were  wrong  to  say 
so  much  without  your  leave;  but  indeed  I  will  do  your  sou  no 
harm.  I  can  not  marry  any  one  else,  because  I  am  engaged 
to  him;  but  as  far  as  he  is  concerned  he  is  free.  I  will  never 
marry  liim  without  your  permission;  he  shall  not  come  here  if 
you  do  not  wish;  but  do  not  be  so  atjgry  with  us;"  and  here  her 
lip  quivered.  "  If  you  did  not  mean  this  to  happen,  you 
should  have  kept  us  apart  all  these  years." 

"  Oh,  hush,  dear!"  whispered  Dick  in  her  ear;  but  Mr. 
Mayne  almost  thrust  him  aside,  and  laid  a  rough  grasp  on  the 
girl's  wrist.  '*  Never  mind  him:  answer  me  one  question. 
Are  you  serious  in  what  you  say,  that  you  will  never  marry 
him  without  my  permission?" 

"  Of  course  I  will  not,"  answered  Nan,  quite  shocked. 
"  Dick  would  not  ask  me  to  do  such  a  thing;  he  is  far  too 
honorable,  and — and — no  one  would  think  of  such  thing." 

"  Very  well;  that  is  all  I  wanted  toknow;'^  and  he  released 
her,  not  overgently:  "  the  rest  I  can  settle  with  Master  Dick 
himself.  Good-morning,  Miss  Nancy:  under  the  circum- 
stances, I  do  not  think  I  will  wait  to  see  your  mother.  I  am 
not  quite  in  the  mood  for  ladies;  perhaps,  later  on,  I  may  have 
something  to  say  to  her." 

"  Don't  you  mean  to  shake  hands  with  me,  Mr.  Mayne?" 
asked  poor  Nan,  much  distressed  at  the  evil  temper  of  Dick's 
father;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  softening. 

"  Yq&;  I  will  shake  hands  with  you,  and  gladly,  if  you  will 
promise  to  be  sensible,  and  send  this  boy  of  mine  about  his 
business.  Cooie  now.  Nan;  own  for  my  comfort  that  it  is 
only  a  bit  of  boy-and-girl  nonsense  that  means  nothing,  lam 
not  overparticular,  and  do  not  object  to  a  bit  of  flirting  with 
young  folk." 

"  You  had  better  go  with  your  father,  Dick,"  returned 
Nan,  with  much  dignity,  and  quite  ignoring  his  speech. 

Dick  seized  the  little  hand  that  had  been  so  rudely  rejected, 
and  kissed  it  under  his  father's  eyes. 

*' 1  will  see  you  again  somehow,"  he  whispered;  and  Nan 
was  quite  content  with  this  promise.  Dick  would  keep  his 
word,  she  knew:  he  w'ould  not  leave  Hadleigh  without  seeing 
her. 

A  very  unpleasant  hour  ensued  for  poor  Dick.  Mr.  Mayne 
was  in  one  of  his  worst  tempers;  he  had  conducted  himself  to 
Nan  in  an  ungeutlemaiily  manner,  and  he  knew  it;  as  Dick 
said  •^■0  liimself : 


NOT    LIKE-    OTHER    6IRLS.  §53 

**  It  is  very  hard  ou  a  fellow  when  one's  father  acts  like  a 
cad. " 

Mr.  Mayne  had  shown  himself  a  cad.  Ko  gentleman  by 
birth  or  breeding  would  have  conducted  himself  in  ihut 
otfensive  way.  Bad  temper  had  broken  down  the  trammels 
of  conventionality;  never  before  in  his  life  had  Dick  IVlt  so  ut- 
terly ashamed  of  his  father.  Mr.  Mayne  was  conscious  of  his 
son's  crilic-ism,  and  it  mude  things  worse.  It  spoke  well  for 
Diek's  prudence  and  self-commiind  that  he  let  the  stoim  of 
his  father's  anger  break  over  his  head,  and  said  no  word.  Mr. 
Mayne  ranted  and  raved;  1  am  afraid  he  even  swoie  once  or 
twice — at  least  his  language  was  undesirably  strong — and  Dick 
walked  beside  him  and  held  his  peace.  "  Poor  old  buy,  he  is 
terribly  cut  up  about  this!"  he  thought  once. 

Mr.  Drumniond  saw  them  coming  along,  and  wondered  al; 
the  energy  of  the  older  man.  Was  it  the  visit  to  the  Fiiary 
that  had  put  him  out?  and  then  he  fell  anew  to  cogitation. 
Who  were  these  people  who  were  so  cucious  about  ihe  Chal- 
loners?  At  least  that  sulky  young  fellow  had  taken  no  a[ipar- 
ent  interest,  for  he  had  made  an  excuse  to  leave  them;  but 
the  other  one  had  persisted  in  very  close  investigation.  Per- 
haps he  was  some  relation — an  uncle  or  a  distant  cousin;  evi- 
dently he  had  some  right  or  claim  to  be  displeased.  Archie 
determined  to  solve  the  mystery  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  Well,  sir,  have  you  nothing  to  say  for  yourself?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Mayne,  when  he  had  fairly  exhausted  himself. 
He  bad  disiidieriied  i^ick  half  a  dozen  times;  he  had  deprived 
him  of  his  liberal  allowance;  he  had  spoken  of  a  projected 
voyage  to  New  Zealand;  and  Dick  had  only  walked  on  stead- 
ily, and  thought  of  the  cold,  trembling  little  hand  he  had 
kissed.  "  Have  you  nothing  to  say  for  yourself?"  he  vocif- 
erated. 

Dick  woke  up  at  this. 

"  Oh,  yes,  1  have  plenty  to  say,"  he  returned,  cheerfully; 
"but  two  can  not  talk  at  once,  you  know.  It  was  right  for 
you  to  have  the  first  innings,  and  all  that;  and  I  say,  father  " 
— his  filial  feelings  coming  to  the  surface — "  I  am  awfully 
sorry,  and  so  is  Nan,  to  see  you  so  vexed. " 

'*  Speak  for  yourself,"  was  the  wrathful  answer.  "  D;n^t 
mention  that  girl's  name  in  my  hearing  for  the  present." 

'*  Whose  name?  Nan's?"  returned  Dick,  innocently.  "  7 
don't  see  how  we  are  to  keep  it  out  of  the  conversatinu,  when 
the  row  is  all  about  hpr.  L  'fik  here,  father:  I  say  again  1  am 
awfully  sorry  you  aie'  vexed;  but,  as  N — she  says,  it  is  too 


154  NOT    UKT;    OtHKil    GIRL§. 

late   to  mend  matters  now.     I  have  made  my  choice,  for 
better  for  worse,  and  1  am  sorry  it  does  not  please  you/' 

"Please  me!"  retorted  Mr.  Mayne;  and  then  he  added, 
venomously:  "  The  girl  said  yon  would  not  marry  without  my 
permissiou;  but  I  will  never  give  it.  Come,  Dick,  it  is  no 
use  thwarting  me  in  this:  you  are  our  only  child,  and  we  have 
other  plans  for  you.  Pshaw!  you  are  only  a  boy!  You  have 
not  seen  the  world  yet.  There  arfi  dozens  of  girls  far  prettier 
than  this  Nan.  Give  this  nonsense  up,  and  there  is  nothing 
I  will  not  do  for  you:  you  shall  travel,  have  your  liberty, 
do  as  you  like  for  the  next  two  or  three  years,  and  1  will  not 
worry  you  about  marrying.  Why,  you  are  only  one-and- 
tiventy;  and  you  have  two  more  years  of  University  life! 
What  an  idea — a  tine  young  fellow  like  you  talking  of  tying 
yourself  down  to  matrimony!" 

"  There  is  no  use  of  my  going  back  to  Oxford,  father,'^  re- 
turned Dick,  steadily;  "  thank  you  kindly  all  the  same,  but 
it  would  be  sheer  waste  of  money.  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  into  the  city:  it  is  the  fashionable  thing  nowadays.  And 
one  does  not  need  Greek  and  Latin  for  that,  though,  of  course, 
it  is  an  advantage  to  a  fellow,  and  gives  him  a  standing;  but, 
as  I  have  to  get  my  own  living,  I  can  not  afford  the  two  years. 
Your  old  chums,  Stanfield  &  IStan field,  would  give  me  a  berth 
at  once." 

"  Is  the  boy  mad?  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  all  this 
tomfoolery?"  demanded  Mr.  Mayne,  unable  to  believe  his 
ears.  His  small  gray  eyes  opened  widely  and  irately  on  his 
son;  but  Dick  took  no  notice.  He  walked  on,  with  his 
shouldeis  looking  rather  square  and  determined;  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  were  working  rebelliously;  evidently  he  did  not 
care  to  lo  >k  at  his  father,  for  fear  of  breaking  into  incontroi- 
lablo  laughter.  Ee-illy,  the  dear  old  boy  was  getting  too  ab- 
surd; he — Dick — could  not  stand  it  mm-h  longer.  "  What  in 
the  name  of  all  that  is  foolish  do  you  mean,  sir?'*'  thundered 
Mr.  Mciyne. 

D'nm  executed  a  low  whistle,  and  then  he  said,  in  an  ag- 
grieved voice: 

*'  Well,  faiher,  1  don't  call  you  very  consistent.  I  suppose 
I  know  what  being  disinherited  means.  In  plain  language, 
yon  have  told  me  about  half  a  dozen  times  that  if  I  stiuk  to 
Nan  f  am  not  to  expent  a  shilling  of  your  money.  Now,  in 
my  own  miml.  of  coarse  I  call  tbat  precious  hard  on  a  fellow. 
Colloid  ri'  g  I  have  not  b  ■en  sii'  h  a  bud  8  irt  of  son  afiei-  all. 
But  1  am  not  going  to  qnar  ,  I  with  you  about  that:  a  maa 
has  a  right,  t,o  do  as  lie  inied  wiih.  his  own  money.' 


)> 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  256 

"  Yes;  but,  Dick,  you  are  going  to  be  sensible,  you  know, 
and  drop  the  girl?"  in  a  wheedling  sort  of  tone. 

"  Excuse  me,  father;  I  am  going  to  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  returned  Dick,  with  suddeu  firmness.  "  I  am  going 
to  sticK  to  her,  as  you  did  to  my  mother;  and  for  just  as  long, 
if  it  must  be  so.  1  am  not  a  bit  afraid  that  you  will  not  give 
your  permission,  if  we  only  wait  long  enough  to  prove  that 
we  are  in  earnest.  The  only  thing  I  am  anxious  about  is  how 
I  am  to  get  my  living;  and  that  is  why  1  will  not  consent  to 
waste  any  more  time  at  the  Unversity.  The  bar  is  too  up-hill 
work;  money  is  made  quickest  in  the  city:  so,  if  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  give  me  an  introduction  to  Stanfield  &  Stan- 
field — I  know  they  are  a  rattling  good  sort  of  people — that  is 
all  I  will  trouble  you  about  at  present."  And  Dick  drew  in 
a  long  breath  of  relief  after  this  weighty  speech. 

"  Do  you  mean  this,  Dick?"  asked  Mr.  Mayne,  rather 
feebly. 

They  had  reached  the  hotel  now,  and,  as  they  entered  the 
private  room  where  their  luncheon  was  awaiting  them,  he  sat 
down  as  though  he  had  grown  suddenly  old  and  tired,  and 
rested  his  head  on  his  hands,  perhaps  to  hide  the  moisture  that 
had  gathered  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"  Yes,  father,  I  do,"  returned  Dick;  but  he  spoke  very 
gently,  and  his  hand  touched  his  father's  shoulder  caressingly. 
"  Let  me  give  you  some  wine:  all  this  business  has  taken  it 
out  of  you." 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  a  blow,  Dick — my  only  boy  has  given  me 
a  blow,"  returned  Mr,  Mayne,  pathetically;  but  as  he  took 
the  wine  his  hand  trembled. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,"  answered  Dick,  penitently.  *'  If 
it  were  anything  else  you  had  asked  me  but  this — but  1 
can  not  give  up  Nan."  And,  as  he  pronounced  the  name, 
Dick's  eyes  shone  with  pride  and  tenderness.  He  was  a  soft- 
hearted, affectionate  young  fellow,  and  this  quarrel  with  his 
father  was  costing  him  a  great  deal  of  pain.  In  everything 
else  he  would  have  been  submissive  to  his  parents;  but  now 
he  had  a  purpose  and  responsibility  in  his  life:  he  had  to  be 
faithful  to  the  girl  whom  ho  had  won;  he  must  think  for  her 
now  as  well  as  for  himself.  How  sweet  was  this  sense  of  dual 
existence,  this  unity  of  heart  and  aimi 

Mr.  Mayne  fairly  groaned  as  he  read  the  expression  on  his 
sou's  face.  Dick's  youthful  countenance  was  stamped  with 
honest  resolution.  "  I  am  going  to  stick  to  her,  as  yon  did 
to  my  mother" — that  was  what  he  had  said.  If  this  were 
true,  it  w?is  ail  over  with  Dick'§  chances  with  the  pretty  little 


26Q  NOT    LlkL    OTHER    GIRLS. 

heiress;  he  would  never  look  at  her  or  her  thirty  thousand! 
pounds;  "  but  all  the  same  he,  Kichaid  Mayne,  would  never 
consent  to  bis  son  marrying  a  dress-maker.  If  she  had  only 
not  disgraced  herself,  if  she  had  not  brought  this  humiliation 
on  them,  he  might  have  been  brought  to  listen  to  their  plead- 
hig  in  good  time  ana  at  his  own  pleasure;  but  now,  never! 
never!"  he  muttered,  and  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"  Dick,"  he  said,  suddenly,  for  there  had  been  utter  silence 
for  a  space. 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  You  have  upset  me  very  much,  and  made  me  very  un- 
happy; but  I  wish  you  to  say  nothing  to  your  moilier,  and  we 
will  talk  about  this  again.  Promise  me  one  thing — that  you 
will  go  back  to  Oxford,  at  least  until  Christmas." 

"  What  is  the  good  of  that,  sii?"  asked  his  son,  dubiously. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  anything?  for  you  have  taken  every 
bit  of  pleasure  out  of  my  life;  but  at  least  you  can  do  as  much 
as  this  for  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  father,  if  you  wish  it,"  returned  Dick,  more 
cheerfully;  "  but  all  the  same  I  have  fixed  upon  a  city  life." 

"We  will  talk  of  that  again,"  replied  his  father;  "and 
Dick,  we  go  home  to-morrow,  and,  unless  you  promise  me  not 
to  come  down  to  HaJleigh  between  this  and  Christmas,  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Challoner. " 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  need  for  that,"  returned  Dick,  sulkily. 

*'  You  give  me  your  word?" 

**  Oh,  yes,"  pushnig  aside  his  chair  with  a  kick.  "  It  would 
be  no  use  coming  down  to  Hadleigh,  for  Nan  would  not  speak 
to  me.  I  know  her  too  well  for  that.  She  has  got  such  a  con- 
science, you  know.  I  shall  write  to  her,  but  1  do  not  know  if 
she  will  answer  my  letters;  but  it  does  not  matter:  we  shall 
both  be  true  as  steel.  If  you  don't  want  me  any  more,  I 
think  I  will  have  a  cigar  on  the  beach,  for  this  room  is  con- 
foundedly hot."  And,  without  waiting  for  permission,  Dick 
strode  off,  still  sulkily,  and  fully  aware  that  his  father  meant 
to  follow  him,  for  fear  of  his  footsteps  straying  again  down 
the  Braid  wood  Eoad. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

'*  mCK    IS   TO   BE   OUR   REAL   BROTHER." 

Never  was  a  father  more  devoted  to  his  sou's  company  than 
Mr.  Mayne  was  tnat  day.  Dit'k's  cigar  was  hardly  alight  be- 
fore his  father  had  joined  him.  When  Dick  grew  weary  of 
throwing  stones  aimlessly  at  imaginary  objects,  and  voted  th§ 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  257 

beach  slow,  Mr.  Mayne  proposed  a  walk  with  alacrity.  They 
dined  together — not  talking  much,  it  is  true,  for  Dick  was 
still  sulky,  and  his  father  tired  and  inclined  to  headache, 
but  keeping  up  a  show  of  conversation  for  tiie  waiter's  benefit. 
But  when  that  functionary  had  retired,  and  the  wine  was  on 
the  table,  Dick  made  no  further  effort  to  be  agreeable,  but 
placed  himself  in  the  window-seat  and  stared  moodily  at  the 
sea,  while  his  father  watched  him  and  drank  his  wine  in 
silence, 

Mr.  Mayne  was  fighting  against  drowsiness  valiantly. 

Dick  knew  this,  and  was  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  make 
his  escape. 

"  Had  we  not  better  ring  for  lights  and  coffee?"  asked  his 
father,  as  he  felt  the  first  ominous  sensations  stealing  over  him. 

"  Not  just  yet.  1  feel  rather  disposed  for  a  nap  myself;  and 
it  is  a  shame  to  shut  out  the  moonlight,'^  returned  that  wicked 
Dick,  calling  up  a  fib  to  his  aid,  and  closing  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke. 

The  bait  took.  In  another  five  minutes  Mr.  Mayne  was 
nodding  in  earnest,  and  Dick  on  tiptoe  had  just  softly  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  and  was  taking  his  straw  hat  from  its 
peg: 

^■.au  was  walking  up  and  down  the  little  dark  lawn,  feeling 
restless  and  out  of  sorts  after  the  agitation  of  the  morning, 
when  she  heard  a  low  whistle  at  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and 
her  heart  felt  suddenly  as  light  as  a  feather. 

Dick  saw  her  white  gown  as  she  came  down  the  flagged  jjath 
to  the  gate  to  let  him  in.  The  moonlight  seemed  to  light  it 
up  with  a  sort  of  glory. 

"  You  are  a  darling  not  to  keep  me  wai^ng,  for  we  have 
not  a  moment  to  lose,"  he  whispered,  as  slie  came  up  close  to 
him.  "  He  is  asleep  now,  but  he  will  wake  up  as  soon  as  he 
misses  me.  Have  you  expected  me  before,  Xau.^  But  indeed 
I  have  not  been  left  to  myself  a  moment. " 

"  Oh,  1  knew  all  about  it,  my  poor  Dick,"  she  answered, 
looking  at  him  so  softly.  "  Phillis  is  reading  to  mother  in  the 
parlor,  and  Dulce  is  in  the  work-room.  1  have  nowhere  to 
ask  you  unless  you  come  in  and  talk  to  them.  But  mother  is 
too  upset  to  see  you,  I  am  afraid. " 

"  Let  us  wait  here,"  returned  Dick,  boldly.  "  No  one  can 
hear  what  we  say,  and  I  must  speak  to  you  alone.  No;  I  had 
better  not  see  your  mother  to-night,  and  the  girls  would  be  in 
the  way.  Shall  you  be  tired,  dear,  if  you  stand  out  here  a 
moment  talking  to  me?  for  I  dare  not  wait  long." 

"Oh,  no,  1  shall  not  be  tired,"   answered    Nan,  gently. 


^5§  NOT    LlE^.    05*H-RU    OmLS. 

Tired,  when  she  had  her  ov/n  Uick  near  her — when  she  could 
speak  to  him — look  at  him! 

"  All  right;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  look  after  ycu,  now  yon 
belong  to  me,"  returned  Dick,  p^oudl^^  "  Whatever  happens 
— however  long  we  may  be  separated — you  must  remember 
that — that  you  belong  to  me — that  you  will  have  to  account 
to  me  if  you  do  not  take  care  of  yourself." 

Nan  smiled  happily  at  this,  and  then  she  said: 

"  I  have  told  mother  all  about  it,  and  she  is  dreadfully  dis- 
tressed about  your  father's  auger.  She  cried  so,  and  took  his 
part,  and  said'she  did  not  ivonder  that  he  would  not  listen  to 
us;  he  would  feel  it  such  a  disgrace,  his  sou  wanting  to  marry 
a  dress-maker.  8ho  made  me  unhappy,  too,  when  &he  put  it 
all  before  me  in  that  way,"  and  here  Nan's  face  paled  per- 
ceptibly in  the  moonlight:  "  for  she  made  me  see  how  hard  it 
is  on  him,  and  on  your  mother,  too!  Oh,  Dick,  don't  you 
think  you  ought  to  listen  to  them,  and  not  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  me?" 

"  Nan,  I  am  shocked  at  you!" 

"But,  Dick!" 

"  1  tell  you  1  am  utterly  shocked!  You  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  my  face,  when  we  have  been  as  good  as  engaged  to  each 
other  all  our  lives!  Who  cares  for  the  trumpery  dress-mak- 
ing?    Not  I!" 

"  But  your  father!  '  persisted  Nan,  but  very  faintly,  for 
Dick's  eyes  were  blazi  g  with  anger. 

"  Not  another  word!  Nan,  how  dare  you — after  what  you 
have  promised  this  morning!  Have  I  not  been  worried  and 
badgered  enough,  without  your  turning  on  me  in  this  way? 
n  you  won't  marry  me,  you  won't;  but  I  shall  be  a  bachelor 
all  my  life  for  your  sake!"  and  Dick,  who  was  so  sore,  poor 
fellow,  that  he  was  ready  to  quarrel  with  her  out  of  the  very 
fullness  of  his  love,  actually  made  a  movement  as  though  to 
leave  her,  only  Nan  caught  him  by  the  arm  in  quite  a  fright- 
ened way. 

"Dick!  dear  Dick!" 

"Well?"  rather  sullenly. 

"  Oh,  don't  leave  me  like  this!  It  would  break  my  heart! 
1  did  not  mean  to  make  you  angry.  I  was  only  pleading  with 
you  for  your  own  good.  Of  course  1  will  keep  my  promise. 
Have  I  not  been  true  to  you  all  my  life?  Oh,  Dick!  how  can 
you  turn  from  me  like  this?"  And  Nan  actually  began  to  sob 
in  earnest,  oidy  Dick's  sweet  temper  returned  in  a  moment  at 
the  sight  of  her  distress,  and  he  fell  to  comforting  her  with  all 
his  might;  and  after  this  things  went  on  more  smoothly. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  259 

He  told  lier  about  his  conversation  v\-i(li  liis  father,  and  how 
lie  liad  planned  a  city  life  for  himself;  but  hcio  Xan  timidly 
interposed : 

"  Would  that  not  be  a  pity,  when  you  had  always  meant  to 
study  for  the  bar?'" 

'•  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  was  the  confident  answer.  "  That  was 
my  father's  wish,  not  mine.  1  don't  mind  telling  you  in  con- 
fidence that  I  am  not  at  all  a  shining  light.  I  am  .ifraid  I  am 
rather  a  dutTer,  and  shall  not  make  my  mark  in  tbe  world.  1 
have  always  thought  desk-work  must  be  rather  a  bore;  but, 
after  all,  with  a  good  introduction  and  a  tolerable  berth,  one  is 
pretty  sure  of  getting  on  in  the  cit3\  Wl;at  1  want  is  to  make 
a  cozv  little  nest  for  somebody,  and  as  quick  as  possible — eh, 
Kan?" 

"  I  do  not  mind  waiting,"  faltered  Nun.  But  she  felt  at 
this  moment  that  no  lover  could  have  bien  so  absolutely  per- 
fect as  her  Diek, 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  girls  always  say,'"  returned  Dick,  rather 
loftily.  "  They  arc  never  in  a  hurry.  They  would  wait  seven 
— ten  years — half  a  life-time.  But  with  us  men  it  is  different. 
1  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you.  1  know  you  will  stick  to  me  like 
a  brick,  and  all  that;  and  father  will  come  round  when  he 
sees  we  are  in  earnest.  But  all  the  same  I  want  to  have  yon 
to  myself  as  soon  as  possible.  A  fellow  likes  the  feeling  of 
working  for  his  wife.  I  hate  to  think  of  these  pretty  fingers 
stitching  away  for  other  people.  1  want  them  to  work  for  me' 
do  you  understand,  Xan?"     And  Nan,  of  course,  understood. 

Dick,  poor  fellow,  had  not  much  time  for  his  love-making, 
he  and  Nan  had  too  much  business  to  settle.  Nan  had  to  ex- 
plain to  him  that  her  mother  was  of  opinion  that,  under 
tbe  present  circumstances,  nothing  ought  to  be  done  to  excite 
Mr.  Mayne's  wrath.  Dick  might  write  to  her  mother  some- 
times, just  to  let  them  know  how  he  was  getting  on,  but  be- 
tween the  young  people  themselves  there  must  be  no  corre- 
spondence. 

"  Mother  says  it  will  not  be  honorable,  and  that  we  are  not 
properly  engaged."  And,  though  Dick  combated  this  rather 
stoutly,  he  gave  in  at  last,  and  agreed  that,  until  the  new 
year,  he  would  not  claim  his  rights,  or  infringe  the  sacred 
privacy  of  the  Friary. 

"  And  now  1  must  go,"  said  Dick,  with  a  great  sigh;  "  and 
it  is  good-bye  for  months.  Now,  I  do  not  mean  to  ask  your 
leave — for  you  are  such  a  girl  for  scruples,  and  all  that,  and 
you  might  take  it  into  your  head  to  refuse  me — so  there!" 


260  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Dick's  words  were  mysterious;  but  he  very  soon  made  his 
meauing  plain. 

Nail  said,  "  Oh,  Dick!"  but  made  no  further  protest.  After 
all,  whatever  Mr.  Mayue  and  her  mother  said,  they  were  en- 
gaged. 

As  Dick  closed  the  little  gate  behind  him,  he  was  aware  of 
a  tall  figure  looming  in  the  darkness. 

"  Confound  that  parson!  What  does  he  mean  by  loaSng 
about  here?"  he  thought,  feeling  something  like  a  pugnacious 
bull-dog  ai  the  prospect  of  a  possible  rival.  "  I  forgot  to  ask 
Nan  about  him,  but  I  dare  say  he  is  after  one  of  the  other 
girls."  But  these  reflections  were  nipped  in  the  bud,  as  Ihe 
short,  sturdy  form  of  Mr.  Mayne  was  dimly  visible  in  the  road. 

Dick  chuckled  softly:  he  could  not  help  it. 

"  All  rifiht,  dear  old  boy,"  he  said  to  himself;  and  then  he 
stepped  up  briskly,  and  took  his  father's  arm. 

*'  Do  you  call  this  honorable,  sir?"  began  Mr.  Mayne,  in  a 
most  irascible  voice. 

"I  call  it  very  neat,"  returned  Dick,  cheerfully.  "My 
dear  pater,  everything  is  fair  in  love  and  war;  and  if  you  will 
nap  at  unseasonable  times — but  that  comes  of  early  rising,  as 
I  have  often  told  you." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir!"  was  the  violent  rejoinder.  "  It 
is  a  mean  trick  you  have  served  me,  and  you  know  it.  We 
will  go  back  to-night;  nothing  will  induce  me  to  sleep  in  this 
place.  You  are  not  to  be  trusted.  You  told  me  a  downright 
lie.     You  were  humbugging  me,  sir,  with  your  naps." 

"  1  plead  guilty  to  a  fib,  if  you  like,"  was  Dick's  careless 
answer.  "  What  a  fuss  you  are  making,  father!  Did  you 
never  tell  one  in  your  life?  Now,  what  is  the  use  of  putting 
yourself  out?  it  is  not  good  at  your  age,  sir.  What  would 
my  mother  say?  It  might  bring  on  apoplex}',  after  that  port 
wine." 

"  CoTifound  your  impertinence!"  rejoined  Mr.  Mayne,  an- 
grily; but  Dick  patted  his  coat-sleeve  pleasantly. 

"  There,  that  will  do.  I  think  you  have  relieved  your  feel- 
ings sufficiently.  Now  we  will  go  to  business.  I  have  seen 
Nan,  and  told  her  all  about  it;  and  she  has  had  it  out  with 
her  mother.  Mrs.  Challoner  will  not  hear  of  our  writing  to 
each  other;  and  1  am  not  to  show  my  face  at  the  Friary  with- 
out your  permission.  There  is  no  fibbing  or  want  of  honor 
there:  Nan  is  not  the  girl  to  encourage  a  fellow  to  take  lib- 
erties." 

"  OU;  indeed!"  sueered  lU-  Mayne;  but  he  listened  utteut- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  261 

ively  for  all  that.  And  his  gloomy  eyebrows  relaxed  in  the 
darlaiess.     The  girl  was  not  behaving  so  badly,  after  all. 

"  So  we  said  good-bye/'  continued  Uick,  keeping  the  latter 
part  of  the  interview  to  himself;  "  and  in  October  I  shall  go 
back  for  the  term,  as  I  promised.  We  can  settle  about  the 
other  things  after  Christmas." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  can  talk  about  that  by  and  by,"  replied  his 
father,  hastily;  and  then  he  waxed  cheerful  all  at  once,  and 
called  his  son's  attention  to  some  new  houses  they  were  build- 
ing. "After  all,  Hadleigh  is  not  such  a  bad  little  place," 
he  observed;  "and  they  gave  us  a  very  good  dinner  at  the 
hotel.  It  is  not  every  one  who  can  cook  fish  like  thaf  And 
then  Dick  knew  that  the  storm  had  blown  over  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  that  his  father  intended  to  make  himself  pleasant 
.and  ignore  all  troublesome  topics. 

Dick  was  a  little  tired  when  he  went  to  bed;  but,  on  the 
whole,  he  was  not  unhappy.  Jt  was  quite  true  that  the  idea 
of  a  city  life  was  repugnant  to  him,  but  the  thought  of  Nan 
sweetened  even  that.  Nothing  else  remained  to  him  if  his  fa- 
ther chose  to  be  disagreeable  and  withdraw  his  allowance,  or 
threaten  to  cut  himolf  with  a  shilling,  as  other  fellows'  fathers 
did  in  novels. 

"  It  is  uncommonly  unpleasant,  having  to  wage  war  with 
one's  own  father,"  thought  Dick,  as  he  laid  his  sandy  head  on 
the  pillow.  "He  is  such  an  old  trump,  too,  that  it  goes 
against  the  grain.  But  when  it  comes  to  his  wanting  to 
choose  a  wife  for  me,  it  is  too  much  of  a  good  thing;  it  is 
tyranny  fit  for  the  Middle  Ages.  Let  him  threaten  if  he  likes. 
He  will  find  1  shall  take  his  threats  in  earnest.  After  Christ- 
mas I  will  have  it  out  with  him  again;  and  if  he  will  not  listen 
to  reason,  I  will  go  up  to  Mr.  James  Stanfield  myself,  and 
then  he  will  see  that  1  mean  what  1  say.  Heigho!  I  am  not 
such  a  lucky  fellow  as  Hamilton  always  thinks  me."  And  at 
this  juncture  of  his  sad  cogitations  Dick  forgot  all  about  it, 
and  fell  asleep. 

Yes,  Dick  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  It  was  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  who  was  wakeful  and  uneasy  that  night.  A  vague 
sense  of  something  wrong  tormented  him  waking  and  sleep- 


ing 


Who  was  that  sandy-headed  young  fellow  who  had  been 
twice  to  the  Friary  that  day?  What  business  had  he  to  be 
shutting  the  gate  after  him  in  that  free-and-easy  way  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night?  He  must  find  it  out  somehow;^  he  must 
make  an  excuse  for  culling  there,  and  put  the  question  as  in- 


202  KOT    LIK1-:    (JTIIL:;    Gi:;LS. 

differently  as  he  could;  but  even  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
pursue  this  course,  Archia  felt  just  as  restless  as  ever. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  cottage  as  early  as  possible.  Phil- 
lis,  who  was  alone  in  the  work-room,  colored  a  little  as  she  saw 
him  comiiig  in  at  the  gate.  He  came  so  often,  he  was  so  kind, 
so  attentive  to  them  all,  and  yet  she  had  a  dim  doubt  in  her 
mind  that  troubled  her  at  times.  Was  it  for  Kan's  sake  that 
he  came?  Could  she  speak  and  undeceive  him  before  things 
went  too  far  wiih  him?  Yes,  when  the  opportunity  offered, 
she  thought  she  could  speak,  even  though  the  speaking  would 
be  painful  to  her. 

Mr.  Drummond  looked  round  the  room  with  a  disappointed 
air  as  he  entered,  and  then  he  came  up  to  Phillis. 

"You  are  alone?"  he  said,  with  a  regretful  accent  in  his 
voice;  at  least  Phillis  fancied  she  detected  it.  "  How  is  that? 
Are  your  sisters  out,  or  busy?" 

"  Oh,  we  are  always  busy,"  returned  Phillis,  lightly;  but, 
curiously  enough,  she  felt  a  little  sore  at  his  tone.  "  Nan  has 
gone  down  to  Albert  Terrace  to  take  a  fresh  order,  and  Dulce 
is  in  the  town  somewhere  with  mother.  Don't  you  mean  to 
sit  down,  Mr.  Drummonii?  oris  your  business  with  mother? 
She  will  not  be  back  just  yet,  but  I  could  give  her  any  mes- 
sage." Phillis  said  this  as  she  stitched  away  with  energy;  but 
one  quick  glance  had  shown  her  that  Mr.  Drummond  was 
looking  irresolute  and  ill  at  ease  as  he  stood  beside  her. 

"  Thank  you,  but  1  must  not  stay  and  hinder  you.  Yes, 
my  business  was  with  your  mother;  but.  it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence, and  I  can  call  again.'"  Nevertheless,  he  sat  down  and 
deposited  his  felt  hat  awkwardly  enough  on  the  table.  He 
liked  Phillis,  but  he  vvas  a  little  afraid  of  her;  she  was  shrewd, 
and  seemed  to  have  the  knack  of  reading  one's  thoughts.  He 
was  wondering  how  he  should  bring  his  question  on  the  tapis: 
but  Phillis,  by  some  marvelous  intuition  that  really  surprised 
her,  had  already  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this  visit  meant 
something.  He  had  seen  Dick;  perhaps  he  wanted  to  find  out 
all  about  him.  Certainly  he  was  not  quite  himself  to-day. 
Yes,  that  must  be  what  he  wanted.  Phillis's  kind  heart  and 
mother-wit  were  always  ready  for  an  emergency. 

"  How  full  Hadleigh  is  getting!"  she  remarked,  pleasantly, 
as  she  adjusted  the  trimming  of  a  sleeve.  "Do  you  know, 
some  old  neighbors  of  ours  from  Oldfield  turned  up  unexpect- 
edly yesterday?  They  are  going  away  to-day,  though,"  she 
added,  with  a  littlo  regret  in  her  voice. 

Archie  brightened  up  visibly  at  this. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  26S 

*' Oh,  indeed  I"'  he  observed,  with  alacrity.  "Not  a  very 
long  visit.     Perhaps  they  came  down  purposely  to  see  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  returned  Phillis,  confusedly.  "They 
had  intended  staying  some  days  at  the  hotel,  but  Mr.  Mayne 
suddenly  changed  his  mind,  much  to  our  and  Dick's  disap- 
pointment; but  it  could  not  be  helped." 

"  Dick,"  echoed  Arcbie,  a  little  surprised  at  this  familiar- 
ity; and  then  he  added,  somewhat  awkv/ardly:  "  I  think  I  saw 
the  young  man  and  his  father  at  the  library  yesterday;  and 
last  night  as  1  was  coming  from  the  station  1  encountered  him 
again  at  your  gate." 

"Yes,  that  was  Dick,"  answered  Phillis,  stooping  a  little 
over  her  work.  "  He  is  not  handsome,  poor  fellowl  but  he  is 
as  nice  as  possible.  They  live  at  Longmead ;  that  is  next  door 
to  our  dear  old  Glen  Cottage,  and  the  gardens  adjoin.  We 
call  him  Dick  because  we  have  knowii  him  all  our  lives,  and 
he  has  been  a  sort  of  brother  to  us." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  drawled  Archie,  slowly.  "  That  sort  of 
thing  is  very  nice  when  you  have  not  a  man  belonging  to  you. 
It  is  a  little  awkward  sometimes,  for  people  do  not  always  see 
this  sort  of  relationship.  He  seemed  a  nice  sort  of  fellow,  I 
should  say,"  he  continued,  in  his  patronizing  way,  stroking 
his  beard  complacently.  After  all,  the  sandy-headed  youth 
was  no  possible  rival. 

"  Oh,  Dick  is  ever  so  nice,"  answered  Phillis,  enthusiast- 
ically; "  not  good  enough  for — "  and  then  she  stopped  and 
broke  her  thread.  "  I  am  glad  we  are  so  fond  of  him,"  she 
continued,  rather  hurriedly,  "  because  Dick  is  to  be  our  real 
brother  some  day.  He  and  Xau  have  cared  for  each  other  all 
their  lives,  and,  though  Mr.  Mayne  is  dreadfully  angry  about 
it,  they  consider  themselves  as  good  as  engaged,  and  mean  to 
live  down  his  opposition.  They  came  to  an  understanding 
yesterday,"  finished  Phillis,  who  was  determined  to  bring  it 
all  out. 

"Oh,  indeedl"  returned  Archie:  "that  must  be  a  great 
relief,  I  am  sure.  There  is  your  little  dog  whining  at  the 
door;  may  I  let  him  in?'*  And,  without  wailing  for  an  an- 
swer, Archie  had  darted  out  in  pursuit  of  Laddie,  but  not  be- 
fore Phillis's  swift  upward  glance  had  shown  her  a  face  that 
had  grown  perceptibly  paler  in  the  last  few  minutes. 

"  Oh,  poor  fellow!  1  was  right!"  thought  Phillis,  and  the 
tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  "  It  was  best  to  speak.  I  see  that 
now;  and  he  will  get  over  it  if  he  thinks  no  one  knows  it. 
How  I  wish  I  could  help  him!  but  it  will  never  do  to  show  the 
least  sympathy.     1  have  no  right."     And  here  Phillis  sighed. 


^64  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLg, 

aud  her  gray  eyes  grew  dark  vvilh  pain  for  a  moment.  Archie 
was  I'ather  a  long  time  absent;  aud  then  he  came  back  with 
Laddie  in  his  arms,  and  stood  by  the  window. 

"Your  news  has  interested  me  very  much,"  he  said,  aud 
his  voice  was  quite  steady.  "  I  suppose,  as  this — this  engage- 
ment is  not  public,  I  had  better  not  wish  your  sister  303',  un- 
less you  do  it  for  me." 

"  Oh,  no;  there  is  no  need  of  that,"  returned  Phillis,  in 
alow  voice.  "  Mother  might  not  like  my  mentioning  it;  but 
1  thought  you  might  wonder  about  Dick,  and — "  here  Phillis 
got  confused. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Archie,  quietly;  but  now  he  looked 
at  her.  "You  are  very  kind.  Yes,  it  was  best  for  me  to 
know."  And  then,  as  Phillis  rose  aud  gave  him  her  hand, 
for  he  had  taken  up  his  hat  as  he  spoke,  she  read  at  once  that 
her  caution  had  been  in  vain — that  he  had  full  understanding 
why  the  news  had  been  told  to  him,  and  to  him  only,  and  that 
he  was  grateful  to  her  for  so  teliing  him. 

Poor  Phillis!  she  had  accomplished  her  task;  and  yet,  as  the 
door  closed  behind  the  young  clergyman,  two  or  three  tears 
fell  on  her  work.  He  was  not  angry  witii  her;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  had  thanked  her,  and  the  grasp  of  his  hand  had  been 
as  cordial  as  ever.  But,  in  spite  of  the  steadiness  of  his  voice 
and  look,  the  arrow  had  pierced  between  the  joints  of  his 
armor.  He  might  not  be  fatally  wounded — that  was  not  in 
the  girl's  power  to  know;  but  that  he  was  in  some  way  hurt 
— made  miserable  with  a  man's  misery — of  this  she  was 
acutely  sensible;  and  the  strongest  longing  to  comfort  him — 
to  tell  him  how  much  she  admired  his  fortitude — came  over 
her,  with  a  strong,  stinging  pain  that  surprised  her. 

Archie  had  the  longest  walk  that  day  that  he  had  ever  had 
in  his  life.  He  came  in  quite  fagged  aud  foot-sore  to  his  din- 
ner, and  far  too  tired  to  eat.  Mattie  told  him  he  looked  ill 
and  worn  out;  but,  though  he  generally  resented  any  such 
persona]  remarks,  he  merely  told  her  very  gently  that  he  was 
tired,  and  tiiat  he  would  like  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his  study,  and 
not  to  be  disturbed.  And  when  she  took  in  the  coffee  pres- 
ently, she  found  him  buried  in  the  depths  of  his  easy-chair, 
and  evidently  half  asleep,  and  stole  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe. 

But  his  eyes  opened  very  speedily  as  soon  as  the  door  closed 
upon  her.  It  was  not  sleep  he  wanted,  but  some  moral 
strength  to  bear  a  pain  that  threatened  to  be  unendurable. 
How  luid  that  girl  read  his  secret?  Surely  he  had  not  be- 
trayed himself!  Nan  had  not  discovered  it,  for  her  calmness 
and  sweet  unconsciousness  had  never  varied  in  his  presence. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  205 

Never  for  an  instant  had  lior  changing  color  testified  to  tho 
faintest  uneasiness.  He  understood  the  reason  of  her  reserve 
now.  Her  thoughts  had  been  with  this  Dick;  and  here  Archie 
groaned  and  hid  iiis  face. 

Not  mortally  hurt,  perhaps;  but  still  the  pain  and  the  sense 
of  loss  R'ere  very  bitter  to  this  young  man,  who  had  felt  for 
weeks  past  that  his  life  was  permeated  by  the  sweetness  and 
graciousness  of  Nan's  presence.  How  lovely  she  had  seemed 
to  him — the  ideal  girl  of  his  dreams!  It  was  love  as  first  sight. 
He  knew  that  now.  His  man's  heart  had  been  set  on  the  hope 
of  winning  her,  and  now  she  was  lost  to  him. 

Never  for  one  moment  had  she  belonged  to  him,  or  could 
belong  to  him.  "  He  and  Nan  had  cared  for  each  other  all 
their  lives  " — that  was  what  her  sister  had  told  him;  and  what 
remained  but  for  him  to  stamp  out  this  craze  and  fever  before 
it  mastered  him  and  robbed  him  of  his  peace? 

"  I  am  not  the  only  man  who  has  had  to  suffer/'  thought 
Archie,  as  hours  after  he  stumbled  up  to  bed  in  the  darkness. 
"  At  least,  it  makes  it  easier  to  know  that  no  one  shares  my 
pain.  These  things  are  better  battled  out  alone.  I  could 
not  bear  even  Grace's  sympathy  in  this."  And  yet  as  Archie 
said  this  to  himself,  he  recalled  without  any  bitterness  the 
half-tender,  half-pitying  look  in  Phillis's  eyes.  "  She  was 
sorry  for  me.  She  saw  it  all;  and  it  was  kind  of  her  to  tell 
me,"  thought  the  young  man. 

He  had  no  idea  that  Phillis  was  at  that  moment  whispering 
little  wistful  prayers  in  the  darkness  that  he  might  soon  be 
comforted. 

Who  knows  how  many  such  prayers  are  flung  out  into  (he 
deep  of  God's  mercy — comfort  for  such  a  one  wtiom  we  would 
fain  comfort  ourselves;  feebte  utterances  and  cries  of  pity;  the 
stretching  out  of  helpless  hands,  which  nevertheless  may  bring 
down  blessings?  But  so  it  shall  be  while  men  and  women 
struggle  and  fall,  and  v/eep  the  tears  common  to  humanity, 
"  unlil  idl  eyes  are  dried  in  the  clear  light  of  eternity,  and  tlie 
sorest  heart  shall  then  own  the  wisdom  of  the  cross  that  had 
been  laid  upon  them.  ' 


CHAPTER   XXXHI. 
"this  is  life  and  death  to  me." 
Phillis  found  it  difficult  during  the  next  few  days  to  rec- 
oncile divided  sympathies;  a  nice  adjustment  of  conflicting 
feelings  seemed  ^almost  impossible.     Nan  was  so  simply,  so 
transparently  happy,  that  no  sister  wor,thy  of  the  name  could 


266  N"OT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


1 


refuse  to  rejoice  with  liev:  a  creature  so  brimming  over  with 
gladness,  with  contented  love,  was  certain  to  reflect  heart- 
sunsliine.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Mr.  Drummond!  To 
be  glad  and  sorry  in  a  breath  was  provoking  to  a  feeling  wom- 
an, as  the  traveler's  blowing  hot  and  cold  was  to  the  satyr  iu 
the  fable. 

In  trying  to  preserve  an  even  balance  Phillis  became  de- 
cidedly cross.  She  was  one  who  liked  a  clear  temperature — 
neither  torrid  nor  frigid.  Too  much  susceptibility  gave  her 
an  east-windy  feeling:  to  be  always  at  the  fever-point  of  sym- 
pathy with  one's  fellow-creatures  would  not  have  suited  her 
at  all. 

Kan,  who  possessed  more  sweetness  of  temper  than  keenness 
of  psychological  insight,  could  not  understand  what  had  come 
to  Phillis.  She  was  absent,  a  trifle  sad,  and  yet  full  of  retort. 
At  times  she  seemed  to  brim  over  with  a  wordy  wisdom  that 
made  no  sort  of  impression. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  retiring  to  bed,  Nan  beckoned 
her  into  her  little  room  and  shut  the  door.  Then  she  placed 
a  seat  invitingly  by  tlie  open  window,  which  was  pleasantly 
framed  by  jasmine;  and  then  she  took  hold  of  Phillis's 
shoulders  in  a  persuasive  manner. 

"  Now,  dear,"  she  said,  coaxingly,  '*  you  shall  just  tell  me 
all  about  it," 

Phillis  looked  up,  a  little  startled.  Then,  as  she  met  Nan's 
gentle,  penetrative  glance,  she  presented  a  sudden  blank  of 
non-comprehension,  most  telling  on  such  occasions,  and  yawned 
slightly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Nannie?"  in  a  somewhat  bored  tone. 

"  Come,  dear,  tell  me,"  continued  Nan,  with  cheerful  per- 
tinacity. "  You  are  never  dull  or  touchy  without  some  good 
reason.  What  has  been  the  matter  the  last  few  days?  Are 
you  vexed  or  disappointed  about  anything?  Are  you  sure — 
quite  sure  you  are  pleased  about  Dick?"  the  idea  occurring  to 
her  suddenly  that  Phillis  might  not  approve  of  their  impru- 
dent engagement. 

"  Oh,  Nannie,  how  absurd  you  are!"  returned  Phillis,  pet- 
tishly. "  Have  I  not  told  you  a  dozen  times  since  Wednesday 
hoiv  delighted  1  am  that  you  have  come  to  an  understanding? 
Have  I  not  sounded  his  praises  until  1  was  hoarse?  Why,  if 
1  had  been  in  love  with  Dick  myself  I  could  not  have  talked, 
about  him  more." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  have  been  very  good,  dear;  but,  still,  I 
felt  there  was  something." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!"  returned  Phillis,  decidedly,  and  her  voice 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GlIlLS.  26? 

ivas  a  liille  barLl.  "  The  fact  is,  you  are  in  the  seventh  heaven 
yourself,  and  you  expect  us  to  be  there  too.  Not  that  I  won- 
der at  you,  Nannie,  because  Dick — dear  old  fellow— is  ever  so 
nice/' 

She  threw  in  this  last  clause  not  without  intention,  and,  of 
course,  the  tempting  bait  took  at  once. 

"  1  never  knew  any  one  half  so  good/'  replied  Nan,  in  a 
calmly  satislied  tone.  "  You  have  hmted  once  or  twice,  Phil, 
that  you  thought  him  rather  too  young — that  our  being  the 
same  age  was  a  pity;  but — do  you  know? — in  Dick's  case  it  does 
not  matter  in  the  least.  No  man  double  his  age  could  have 
made  his  meaning  more  plain,  or  have  spoken  better  to  the 
purpose,  lie  is  so  strong  and  self-reliant  and  manly;  and, 
with  all  his  fan,  he  is  so  unselfish." 

"  lie  will  make  you  a  very  good  husband.  Nan;  I  am  sure 
of  that." 

"  I  think  he  will,"  returned  Nan,  with  a  far-away  look  in 
her  eyes.  Sha  was  recalling  Dick's  speech  about  the  nest  that 
he  wanted  to  make  cozy  for  some  one.  "Phil,  dear,"  she 
went  on,  after  this  blissful  pause,  "  1  wish  you  had  a  Dick 
too." 

"  Good  gracious,  Nannie!" 

"  1  mean — you  know  what  I  mean — some  one  to  whom  you 
are  first,  and  who  has  a  right  to  care  for  you;  it  gives  such  a 
moaning  to  one's  life.  Of  course  it  will  come  in  time;  no 
one  can  look  at  you  and  not  prophesy  a  happy  future:  it  is 
only  I  who  am  impatient  and  want  it  to  come  soon." 

Phillis  wi-inkled  her  brows  thoughtfully  over  this  speech; 
she  seemed  inclined  to  digest  and  assimilate  it. 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  she  replied,  after  a  pause. 
"  Yes;  it  would  be  nice,  no  doubt." 

"  When  the  real  lie  comes,  you  will  find  how  nice  it  is," 
rejoined  Nan,  with  sympathetic  readiness.  "Do  you  know, 
Phil,  the  idea  has  once  or  twice  occurred  to  me  that  Mr. 
Drummond  comes  rather  often?"  But  here  Phillis  shook  off 
her  hand  and  started  from  her  chair. 

"  There  is  a  moth  singeing  its  wings.  Poor  wee  beastie!  let 
me  save  it,  if  it  be  not  too  late."  And  she  chased  the  insect 
most  patiently  until  the  blue-gray  wings  fluttered  into  her 
hand. 

"There,!  have  saved  him  from  utter  destruction!"  she 
cried,  triumphantly,  leaning  out  into  the  darkness.  "  He  has 
scorched  him-^elf,  that  is  alt;"  then,  as  she  walked  back  to  her 
sister,  her  head  was  erect,  and  there  was  a  beautiful,  earnest 
look  apoii  her  face. 


268  NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS. 

"  Nanule,  I  don't  want  to  find  fault  with  you,  but  don'fc 
you  remember  how  we  used  to  pride  ourselves^  iu  the  dear  old 
days,  iu  not  being  like  other  girls — the  Paines,  for  example, 
or  even  Adelaide  Satoris,  who  used  to  gossip  so  much  about 
young  men.'* 

Nan  opened  her  eyes  widely  at  this,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  We  must  not  be  different  now,  because  our  life  is  nar- 
rower, and  more  monotonous.  1  know,  talking  so  much  over 
our  work,  we  have  terrible  temptations  to  gossip;  but  I  can't 
bear  to  think  that  we  should  ever  lower  our  standard,  ever 
degenerate  into  the  feeble  girlishness  we  abhor.  We  never 
used  to  talk  about  young  men,  Nan,  except  Dick,  and  that 
did  not  matter.  Of  course  we  liked  them  in  their  places,  and 
had  plenty  of  fun,  and  tormented  them  a  little;  but  you  never 
made  such  a  speech  as  that  at  Glen  Cottage.'' 

"  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  What  have  I  done?"  exclaimed 
Nan,  much  distressed  at  this  rebuke.  "  I  do  think  you  are 
riglit,  Phil;  and  it  was  naughty  of  me  to  put  such  a  thing  into 
your  head." 

"  You  have  put  no  idea  into  my  head,"  replied  Phillis,  with 
crisp  obstinacy.  "  There!  I  am  only  moralizing  for  my  own 
good,  as  well  as  yours.  Small  beginnings  make  great  endings. 
If  we  once  began  to  gossip,  we  might  end  by  flirting;  and. 
Nan,  if  you  knew  how  I  hate  that  sort  of  thing!"  And  Phil- 
lis looked  grand  and  scornftd. 

"  Yes,  dear;  and  I  know  you  are  right,"  returned  Nan, 
huuibly.  She  was  not  quite  sure  what  she  had  done  to  pro- 
voke this  outburst  of  high  moral  feeling,  but  she  felt  that 
Phillis  w'as  dreadfully  in  earnest.  They  kissed  each  other 
rather  solemnly  after  that,  and  Phillis  was  suiiered  to  depart 
in  silence. 

That  night  there  was  no  wistftd  little  prayer  that  Mr. 
Drummond  might  be  comfoi'teu:  Phillis  had  too  many  pe- 
titions to  ofiei-  up  on  her  own  account.  She  was  accusing 
herself  of  pride,  and  Pharisaiom,  and  hypocrisy,  in  no  meas- 
ured terms.  "  Not  like  other  giils!  I  am  worse— worse,"  she 
said  to  herself.  And  then,  among  other  things,  slie  asked  for 
the  gift  of  content— for  a  quiet,  satisfied  spirit,  not  craving  or 
imbittered — strcngih  to  bear  her  own  and  her  friends'  troubles, 
and  far-looking  faith  to  discern  "  God's  perfectness  round  our 
uncompleteness — round  our  restlessness  His  rest." 

The  following  evening,  as  Phillis  was  sorting  out  patterns 
in  the  work-room,  a  note  was  brought  to  her  from  the  White 
House.  It  was  in  Mrs.  Cheyne's  handwriting,  and,  like  her- 
self, strangely  abrupt. 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS*  2G9 

"Your  visits  are  like  angels' visits — extremely  rare,"  it 
began.  "  1  am  afraid  1  have  frightened  you  away,  as  1  have 
frightened  the  parson.  I  thought  you  had  more  wit  than  he 
to  discern  between  mannerism  and  downright  ill  humor.  This 
evening  the  temperature  is  equable — not  the  sign  of  a  brood- 
ing cloud;  so  put  on  your  hat,  like  a  good  girl,  and  come  over. 
Miss  Mewlstone  and  I  will  be  prepared  to  welcome  you." 

"  You  had  better  go,"  observed  I^an,  who  had  read  the 
note  over  her  sister's  shoulder:  "you  have  worked  so  dread- 
fully hard  all  day,  and  it  will  be  a  little  change." 

"  No  one  cares  for  east  winds  as  a  change,"  replied  Phillis, 
dryly;  nevertheless,  she  made  up  her  mind  Ihat  she  would  go. 
She  was  beginning  to  dread  being  summoned  to  the  White 
House;  she  felt  that  Mrs.  Cheyne  alternately  fascinated  and 
repelled  her.  She  was  growing  fond  of  Miss  Mewlstone;  but 
then,  on  these  occasions,  she  had  so  little  intercourse  with  her. 
The  charitable  instinct  that  was  always  ready  to  be  kindled  in 
Phillis's  nature  prompted  her  to  pay  these  visits;  and  yet  she 
always  went  reluctantly. 

She  had  two  encounters  on  the  road,  both  of  which  she  had 
foreseen  with  nice  presentiment. 

The  first  was  with  Mr.  Drummond. 

He  was  walking  along  slowly,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
A  sort  of  flush  came  to  his  face  when  he  saw  Phillis;  and  then 
he  stopped  and  shook  hands,  and  asked  after  them  all  com- 
prehensively, yet  with  constraint  in  his  voice.  Phillis  told 
him  rather  hurripdly  that  she  was  going  to  the  White  House: 
Mrs.  Cheyne  had  sent  for  her. 

Archie  smiled: 

"  I  am  glad  she  does  not  send  for  me.  I  have  not  been 
there  lor  a  long  time.  Sarcasm  is  not  an  attractive  form  of 
welcome.  It  slams  the  door  in  a  man's  face.  I  hope  you 
will  not  get  some  hard  hits.  Miss  Challoner."  And  then  he 
v/ent  on  his  way. 

As  she  approached  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage,  Mr.  Dancy  was, 
as  usual,  leaning  against  the  little  gate.  He  stepped  out  in 
the  road  and  accosted  her. 

"  I  have  not  called  on  your  mother,"  he  began,  rather 
abruptly.  "  After  all,  I  thought  it  best  not  to  trouble  her 
just  now.  Can  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes?  or  are  you  go- 
ing in  there?"  looking  toward  the  White  House. 

"  I  am  rather  in  a  hurry,"  returned  Phillis,  surprised  at  his 
manner,  it  seemed  so  agitated.  "  I  am  already  late,  and 
Mrs.  Cheyne  will  be  expecting  me." 

"  Very  well,  another  time,"  he  replied,  stepping  back  with- 


S70  KOT    tlKt    OTHER    GIRLS. 

out  further  cei-emony;  but  until  Pliillis's  figure  disapioeared  IQ 
the  trees  he  watched  her,  leaning  still  upon  the  little  gate. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  received  her  with  a  frosty  smile;  but,  on  the 
whole,  her  manner  was  more  gracious  than  usual,  and  by  and 
by  it  thawed  completely. 

She  was  a  little  captious  at  first,  it  was  true,  and  she  snubbed 
poor  Miss  Mevvlstone  decidedly  once  or  twice — but  then  Miss 
MewlsLone  was  used  to  being  snubbed — but  with  Phillis  she 
was  sparing  of  sarcasm.  After  a  lime  she  began  to  look 
kindly  at  the  girl;  then  she  bade  her  talk,  rather  peremptorily, 
because  she  liked  her  voice,  and  found  it  pleasant  to  listen  to 
her;  and  by  and  by  Phillis  grew  more  at  her  ease,  and  her 
girlish  talk  rippled  on  as  smoothly  as  possible. 

Mrs.  Cheyne's  face  softened  and  grew  strangely  handsomo 
as  she  listened:  she  was  drawing  Phillis  out — leading  her  to 
speak  of  the  old  life,  and  of  all  their  youthful  source  of  hap- 
piness. Then  she  fell  into  a  retrospect  of  her  own  young 
days,  when  she  was  a  spoiled  madcap  girl  and  had  all  sorts  of 
daring  adventures. 

Phillis  was  quite  fascinated;  she  was  even  disajipDinted  when 
Miss  Mewlstone  pointed  out  the  lateness  of  (he  hour. 

"  1  have  enjoyed  myself  so  much,"  she  said,  as  she  put  on 
her  hat. 

"  I  meant  you  to  enjoy  yourself,"  returned  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
quietly,  as  she  drew  the  girl^s  face  down  to  hers.  "  1  have 
given  you  such  a  bad  impression  that  you  look  on  me  as  a  sort 
of  moral  bugbear.  I  can  be  very  different,  when  I  like,  and  I 
have  liked  to  be  agreeable  to-night."  And  then  this  strange 
woman  took  up  a  rich  cashmere  shawl  from  the  couch  where 
she  was  lying,  and  folded  it  round  Phillis *s  shoulders,  "  The 
evenings  are  chilly.  Jeffreys  can  bring  this  back  with  her;" 
for  Mrs.  Choyne  had  already  decided  that  this  time  her  maid 
should  accompany  Phillis  to  the  cottage. 

Phillis  laughed  in  an  amused  fashion  as  she  saw  the  reflec- 
tion of  herself  in  one  of  the  mirrors:  her  figure  looked  quite 
queenly  enveloped  in  the  real  drapery.  "  She  has  forgotten 
all  about  the  dress-making,"  she  thought  to  hei'self  as  she 
tripped  down-stairs. 

It  was  a  lovely  moonlight  evening;  the  avenue  was  white 
and  glistening  in  the  soft  light:  the  trees  cast  weird  shadows 
on  the  grass.  Phillis  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  in  the 
distance  Mr.  Dancy's  tall  figure  pacing  to  and  fro  before  the 
lodge  gate.  He  was  evidently  wailing  for  her,  for  as  she  ap- 
proached he  threw  away  his  cigar  and  joined  her  at  once. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  S*?! 

Jeffreys,  who  thought  he  was  some  old  acquaintance,  dropped 
behind  very  discreetly,  after  the  maimer  of  waitiiig-womeu. 

"  How  long  you  have  stayed  this  eveningi  I  have  been  walk- 
ing up  and  down  for  more  than  an  hour,  vvatchiug  for  you,'* 
he  began,  with  curious  abruptness. 

This  and  no  more  did  Jeffreys  hear  before  she  lingered  out 
of  ear-:>hot.  The  lady's-maid  thought  she  perceived  an  in- 
teresting situation,  and  being  of  a  susceptible  and  sympathetic 
temperament,  with  a  blighted  attachment  of  her  own,  there 
was  no  fear  of  her  intruding.  Phillis  looked  around  once,  but 
Jeffreys  was  absorbed  in  her  contemplations  of  the  clouds. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,'Mie  continued;  and 
then  he  stopped  all  at  once,  and  caught  hold  of  the  fringe  of 
the  shawl.  "  This  is  not  yours;  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  Mag- 
dalene in  it.  Pshaw!  what  am  I  saying?  the  force  of  old  habit. 
1  knew  her  once  as  Magdalene." 

"  It  is  dreadfully  heavy,  and,  after  all,  the  evening  is  so 
warm/'  returned  Phillis,  taking  no  notice  of  this  incoherent 
speech. 

"  Let  me  carry  it,"  he  rejoined,  with  singular  eagerness; 
"  it  is  absurd,  a  wrap  like  that  on  such  anight."  And,  while 
Phillis  hesitated,  he  drew  the  shawl  from  her  shoulders  and 
hung  it  over  his  arm,  and  ail  the  way  his  disengaged  right 
hand  rested  on  the  folds,  touching  it  softly  from  lime  to  time, 
as  though  the  mere  feeling  of  the  texture  pleased  him. 

"  How  was  she  to-night?"  he  asked,  coming  a  little  closer 
to  Phillis,  and  dropping  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 

"  Who?  Mrs.  Cheyne?  Oh,  she  was  charming!  just  a  little 
cold  and  captious  at  first,  but  that  is  her  way.  But  this  even- 
ing she  was  bent  on  fascinating  me,  and  she  quite  succeeded; 
she  looked  ill,  though,  but  very,  very  beautiful." 

"  She  never  goes  out.  I  can  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  her," 
he  returned,  hurriedly.  "  Miss  Challoner,  1  am  going  to 
startle — shock  you,  perhaps;  but  1  have  thought  about  if  un- 
til my  head  is  dizzy,  and  there  is  no  other  way.  Please  give 
me  your  attention  a  moment,"  for  Phillis,  with  a  vague  sense 
of  uneasiness,  bad  looked  around  for  Jeft'reys.  "  1  must  see 
you  alone;  I  must  speak  to  you  where  we  shall  not  be  inter- 
rupted. To  call  on  your  mother  will  be  no  good;  you,  and 
only  you,  can  help  me.  And  you  are  so  strong  and  merciful 
— 1  can  read  that  in  your  eyes — that  1  am  sure  of  your  sym- 
pathy, if  you  will  only  give  me  a  hearing." 

"  Mr.  Dancy!  oh,  what  can  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Phillis. 
She  was  dreadfully  frightened  at  his  earnestness,  but  her  voice 
was  dignified,  and  she  drew  herself  away  with  a  movement  full 


272  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

of  pride  and  hauteur.     "  You  are  a  stranger  to  me:  you  have 
no  right — " 

"  The  good  Samaritan  w^as  a  stranger,  too.  Have  you  for- 
gotten that?^'  he  returned,  in  a  voice  of  grave  rebuke.  "  Oh, 
you  are  a  girl;  you  are  thinking  of  your  mother!  I  have 
shocked  your  sense  of  propriety,  my  child;  for  you  seem  a 
child  to  me,  who  have  lived  and  suffered  so  much.  Would 
you  hesitate  an  instant  if  some  poor  famishing  wretch  were  to 
ask  you  for  food  or  water?  AVell,  I  am  that  poor  wretch. 
AVhat  1  have  to  tell  you  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me. 
Only  a  woman — only  you— can  help  me;  and  you  shrink  be- 
cause we  have  not  had  a  proper  introJuctiou.  My  dear  young 
lady,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  I  am  unfortunate, 
bub  a  gentleman — a  married  man,  if  that  v/ill  satisfy  your 
scruples — " 

"  But  my  mother,"  faltered  Phillis,  not  knowing  what  to 
say  to  this  unfortunate  stranger,  who  terrified  and  yet  at- 
tracted her  by  turns. 

Never  had  she  heard  a  human  voice  so  persuasive  and  yet 
so  agonized  in  its  intensity.  A  conviction  of  the  truth  of  his 
words  seized  upon  her  as  she  listened — that  he  was  unhappy, 
that  he  needed  her  sympathy  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and 
yet  that  she  herself  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  purpose.  But 
what  would  Nan  say  if  she  consented — if  she  acceded  to  such 
an  extraordinary  proposition — to  appoint  a  meeting  with  a 
stranger? 

"  It  is  life  and  death  to  me;  remember  that!"  continued 
Mr.  Dancy,  in  that  low,  suppressed  voice  of  agitation.  "  If 
you  refuse  on  the  score  of  mere  girlish  propriety,  you  will  re- 
gret it.  I  am  sure  of  that.  Trust  to  your  own  brave  heart, 
and  let  it  answer  for  you.  Will  you  refuse  this  trifling  act  of 
mercy — just  to  let  me  speak  to  you  alone,  and  tell  you  my 
story?  When  you  have  heard  that,  you  will  take  things  into 
your  own  hands." 

Phillis  hesitated,  and  grew  pale  with  anxiety;  but  the  in- 
slincls  of  her  nature  v.'ere  stronger  than  her  prudence.  From 
the  first  she  had  believed  in  this  man,  and  felt  interested  in 
him  and  his  mysterious  surroundings.  "  One  may  be  deceived 
in  a  face,  but  never  in  a  voice,"  she  had  said,  in  her  pretty, 
dictatorial  way;  and  now  this  voice  was  winning  her  over  to 
his  side. 

"  It  is  not  right,  but  what  can  I  do?  You  say  I  can  help 
you — "  And  then  she  paused.  "  To-morrow  morning  I  have 
to  take  some  work  to  liock  Building.     1  shall  not  be  long. 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  273 

But  I  could  go  on  flie  beach  for  half  au  hour.  Nau  would 
spare  me.     I  miofht  hear  your  story  then." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  aud  rather  ungraciously,  as  though  she 
were  dispensing  largess  to  a  troublesome  mendicant;  but  Mr. 
Dancy^s  ans^^er  was  humble  iu  its  intense  gratitude. 

"  God  bless  you!  I  knew  your  kind  heart  was  to  be  trust- 
ed. There!  I  will  not  come  any  further.  Good-night;  good- 
night. A  thousand  thanks!"  And,  before  Phillis  could  re- 
ply, this  strange  being  had  left  her  side,  and  was  laying  the 
cashmere  shawl  in  Jeffreys'  arm,  slowly  and  tenderly,  as 
though  it  were  a  child. 

Phillis  was  glad  that  Dulce  opened  the  door  to  her  that 
night,  for  she  was  afraid  of  Nan's  questioning  glance.  Nan 
was  tired,  and  she  had  retired  early;  and,  as  Dulce  was  sleepy 
too,  Phillis  was  now  leEt  in  peace.  She  passed  the  night  rest- 
lessly, waking  up  at  all  sorts  of  untimely  hours,  her  conscience 
pricking  her  into  wakefulness.  To  her  well-ordered  nature 
there  was  something  terrifying  in  the  thought  that  she  should 
be  forced  to  take  such  a  step. 

"  Oh,  what  would  mother  and  Nan  say?"  was  her  one  cry. 
"  I  know  I  am  dreadfully  impulsive  and  imprudent,  but 
Nan  would  think  I  am  not  to  be  trusted;''  but  she  had  passed 
her  word,  and  nothing  now  would  have  induced  her  to  swerve 
from  it. 

She  eat  her  breakfast  silently,  and  with  a  sense  of  ojjpression 
and  guilt  quite  new  to  her.  She  grew  inwardly  hot  whenever 
Nan  looked  at  her,  which  she  did  continually  and  with  the 
utmost  affection.  Before  the  meal  was  over,  however.  Miss 
Middletnn  and  Mattie  made  their  appearance,  and  in  the 
slight  bustle  of  entrance  Phillis  managed  to  effect  her  escape. 

The  hour  that  followed  bore  the  unreality  of  a  nightmare. 
Outwardlj',  Phillis  was  the  grave,  business-like  dress-maker. 
The  lady  who  had  sent  for  her,  and  who  was  a  stranger  to 
Hadleigh,  was  much  struck  with  her  quiet,  self-possessed  man- 
ners-and  lady-like  demeanor. 

"Her  voice  was  quite  refined,"  she  said  afterward  to  her 
daughter.  "  And  she  had  such  a  nice  face  and  beautiful  figure. 
I  am  sure  she  is  a  reduced  gentlewoman,  for  her  accent  was  per- 
fect, 1  am  quite  obliged  to  Miss  Milner  for  recommending  us 
such  a  person,  for  she  evidently  understands  her  business.  One 
thing  1  noticed,  Ada,  tlie  way  in  which  she  quietly  laid  down 
the  parcel,  and  said  it  should  be  fetched  presently.  Any  or- 
dinary dress- maker  in  a  small  town  like  this  would  have  car- 
ried it  home  herself." 

Poor  Phillis!  she  had  laid  down  the  parcel  and  drawn  on  her 


274  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

well-fitting  gloves  with  a  curious  sinking  at  her  heart:  from 
the  window  of  the  house  in  Rook  Building  she  could  distinctly 
see  Mr.  Dancy  walking  up  and  down  the  narrow  plat  of  grass 
before  the  houses,  behind  the  tamarisk  hedge,  his  foreign- 
looking  cloak  and  slouch  hat  making  him  conspicuous. 

"  There  is  that  queer-looking  man  again,  mamnia,^'  ex- 
claimed one  of  the  young  ladies,  who  was  seated  in  the  win- 
dow. "  I  am  sure  he  is  some  distinguished  foreigner,  he  has 
such  an  air  with  him. '^ 

Phillis  listened  to  no  more,  but  hurried  down  the  stairs,  and 
then  prepared  to  cross  the  green  with  some  degree  of  trepida- 
tion. She  was  half  afraid  that  Mr.  Dancy  would  join  her  at 
once,  in  the  full  view  of  curious  eyes;  but  he  knew  better.  He 
sauntered  on  slowly  until  he  reached  the  Parade,  and  was  go- 
ing toward  a  part  of  the  beach  where  there  was  only  a  knot 
of  children  wading  knee-deep  in  the  water,  sailing  a  toy  boat. 
She  stood  and  watched  them  dreamily,  until  the  voice  she  ex- 
pected sounded  in  her  ear: 

"  True  as  steel!  Ah,  1  was  never  deceived  in  a  face  yet. 
Where  shall  we  sit.  Miss  Challoner?  Yes,  this  is  a  quiet  cor- 
ner, and  the  children  will  not  disturb  us.  Look  at  that  urchin, 
with  his  bare  brown  legs  and  curly  head:  is  he  not  a  study? 
Ah,  if  he  had  lived — my—''  And  then  he  sighed  and  threw 
himself  on  the  beach. 

"  Well?"  observed  Phillis,  interrogatively.  She  was  in- 
clined to  be  short  with  him  this  morning.  She  had  kept  her 
word,  and  put  herself  into  this  annoying  position;  but  there 
must  be  no  hesitation,  no  beating  about  the  bush,  no  loss  of 
precious  time.  The  story  she  had  now  to  hear  must  be  told, 
and  without  delay. 

Mr.  Dancy  raised  his  eyes  as  he  heard  the  tone,  and  then  he 
took  off  his  spectacles,  as  though  he  felt  them  an  incumbrance. 
Phillis  had  a  very  good  view  of  a  pair  of  handsome  eyes,  with 
a  lurking  gleam  of  humor  in  them,  which  speedily  died  away 
into  sadness. 

"  You  are  in  a  hurry;  but  I  was  thinking  how  I  could  best 
begin  without  startling  you.  But  1  may  as  well  get  it  out 
without  any  prelude.  Miss  Challoner,  to  Mrs,  Williams  I 
am  only  Mr.  Dancy,  but  my  real  name  is  Herbert  Dancy 
Clieyue." 


KOX   LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  ^75 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

mtss  mewlstone  has  an"  interruptioit. 

"Herbert  Dancy  Chetne!" 

As  lie  prouounced  the  name  slowly  and  with  marked  em- 
phasis a  low  cry  of  uncontrollable  astonishment  broke  from 
Phillis:  it  was  so  unexpected.  She  began  to  shiver  a  little 
from  the  suddeu  shock. 

"  There!  1  have  startled  you — and  no  wonder;  and  yet  how 
could  I  help  it?  Yes,"  he  repeated,  calmly,  "  I  am  that  un- 
fortunate Herbert  Chevne  whom  his  own  wife  believes  to  be 
dead." 

"  Whom  every  one  believes  to  be  dead,"  corrected  Phillis, 
in  a  panting  breath. 

"  Is  it  any  wonder?"  he  returned,  vehemently;  and  his  eyes 
darkened,  aud  his  whole  features  worked,  as  though  with  the 
recollection  of  some  unbearable  pain,  "  Have  i  not  been 
snatched  from  the  very  jaws  of  death?  Has  not  mine  been  a 
living  death,  a  hideous  grave,  for  these  four  years?"  And 
then,  hurriedl}^  and  almost  disconnectedly,  as  though  the  mere 
recalling  of  the  past  was  torture  to  him,  he  poured  into  the 
girl's  shrinking  ears  fragments  of  a  story  so  stern  in  its  real- 
ity, so  terrible  in  its  details,  that,  regardless  of  the  children 
that  played  on  the  margin  of  the  water,  Phillis  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  wept  for  sheer  pity. 

Wounded,  bereft  of  all  his  friends,  and  left  apparently  dy- 
ing in  the  hands  of  a  hostile  tribe,  Herbert  Cheyue  had  owed 
his  life  to  the  mercy  of  a  woman,  a  poor,  degraded,  ill-used 
creature,  half-witted  and  ugly,  but  who  had  not  lost  all  the 
instincts  of  her  womanhood,  and  who  fed  and  nursed  the  white 
stranger  as  tenderly  as  though  he  were  her  own  son. 

While  the  old  negress  lived,  Herbert  Cheyne  had  been  left 
in  peace  to  languish  back  to  life,  through  days  and  nights  of 
intolerable  sutfering,  until  he  had  regained  a  portion  of  his 
old  strength;  then  a  fever  carried  off  his  protectress,  aud  he 
became  virtually  a  slave. 

Out  of  picy  for  the  tender-hearted  girl  who  listened  to  him, 
Mr.  Cheyne  hurried  over  this  part  of  his  sorrowful  past.  He 
spoke  briefly  of  indignities,  abuse,  and  at  last  of  positive  ill- 
treatment.  A.gain  and  again  his  life  had  been  in  danger  from 
biute  violence;  again  and  again  he  had  striven  to  escape,  anc} 
had  been  recaptured  with  blows. 


^fe  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Phillis  pointed  mutely  to  his  scarred  wrists^  and  the  tears 
flowed  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  yes;  these  are  the  marks  of  my  slavery,"  he  replied, 
bitterly.  "  They  were  a  set  of  hideous  brutes,  and  the  fetich 
they  worshiped  was  cruelty.  I  carry  about  me  other  marks 
that  must  go  with  me  to  my  grave;  but  there  is  no  need  to 
dwell  ou  these  horrors.  He  sent  His  angel  to  deliver  me,"  he 
continued,  reverently;  "  and  again  my  benefactor  was  a 
woman." 

And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  Phillis  that  one  of  the  wives  of 
the  chief  in  whose  service  he  was  took  pity  on  him,  and  aided 
him  to  escape  on  the  very  night  before  some  great  festival, 
.when  it  had  been  determined  to  kill  him.  This  time  he  had 
succeeded;  and,  after  a  series  of  hair-breadth  adventures,  he 
had  fallen  in  with  some  Dutch  traders,  who  had  come  far  into 
the  interior  in  search  of  ivory  tusks.  He  was  so  burned  by 
the  su!i  and  disfigured  by  paint  that  he  had  great  difliculty  iu 
proving  his  identity  as  an  Englishman.  But  at  last  they  had 
suffered  him  to  join  them,  and  after  some  more  months  of 
wandering  he  had  worked  his  way  to  the  coast. 

There  misfortune  had  again  overtaken  him,  in  the  form  of 
a  long  and  tedious  illness.  Fatigue,  disaster,  anguish  of  mind, 
and  a  slight  stmstroke  had  taken  dire  effect  upon  him;  but 
this  time  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  good  Samaritans. 
The  widowed  sister  of  the  consul,  a  very  Dorcas  of  good 
works,  had  received  the  miserable sti anger  iuto  her  house;  and 
she  and  her  son,  like  Elijah's  widow  of  Zarej^hath,  had  shared 
with  him  their  scanty  all. 

"  They  vvere  very  poor,  but  they  pinched  themselves  for  the 
sake  of  the  stricken  wretch  that  was  thrown  on  their  mercy. 
It  Vv'as  a  woman  again  who  succored  me  the  third  time," 
continued  Mr.  Cheyne:  "you  may  judge  how  sacred  women 
are  in  my  eyes  now!  Dear,  motherly  Mrs.  Van  Hollick!  when 
she  at  last  suffered  me  to  depart,  she  kissed  and  blessed  me 
as  though  I  vvere  her  own  son.  Never  to  my  dying  day  shall 
I  forget  her  goodness.  My  one  thought,  after  seeing  Magda- 
lene, will  be  howl 'am  to  repay  her  goodness — howl  can  make 
prosperity  flow  in  on  the  little  household,  that  the  cruse  and. 
cake  may  never  faill" 

"  liut,"  interrupted  Phillis,  at  this  point,  "  did  you  not 
write,  or  your  friends  write  for  you,  to  England i"' 

Mr.  Cheyne  smiled  bitterly: 

"  It  seems  as  though  some  strange  fatality  were  over  me. 
Yes,  I  wrote.  I  wrote  to  Magdalene,  to  my  lawyer,  and  to 
another  friend  who  had  known  me  all  my  life,  but  the  ship 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS.  277 

that  carried  these  letters  was  burned  at  sea.  I  only  heard 
that  uiieu  I  at  last  worked  my  way  to  Porstinouth  as  a  com- 
mou  sailor,  aud  in  that  guise  presented  myself  at  my  lawyer's 
chambers.  Poor  man!  I  thought  he  would  have  fainted  when 
he  saw  me.  He  owned  afterward  he  was  a  believer  in  ghosts 
at  that  moment." 

"  How  long  ago  was  that?"  asked  Phillis,  gently. 
"  Two  months;  not  louger.  It  was  then  I  heard  of  my 
children's  death,  of  my  wife's  long  illness  and  her  strange 
state.  I  was  ill  myself,  and  not  tit  to  battle  through  any 
mo^  scenes.  Mr.  Standish  took  me  home  until  J  had  rested 
and  recovered  myself  a  little;  then  I  put  on  this  disguise — 
not  that  much  of  it  is  necessary,  for  few  people  would  rec- 
ognize me,  1  believe — and  came  down  here  and  took  posses- 
sion of  Mrs.  Williams's  lodgings." 

Phillis  looked  at  him  with  mute  questioning  in  her  eyes. 
She  did  not  venture  to  put  it  into  v/ords,  but  he  understood 
her. 

"  Why  have  I  waited  so  long,  do  you  ask?  aud  why  am  I  liv- 
ing here  within  sight  of  my  own  house,  a  spy  on  my  own  thresh- 
old and  wife?  My  dear  Miss  Challoner,  there  is  a  bitter  reason 
for  that!  Four  years  ago  I  parted  from  my  wife  in  anger. 
There  were  words  said  that  day  that  few  women  could  forgive. 
Has  she  forgiven  them?  That  is  what  1  am  trying  to  find  out. 
•  Will  the  husband  that  has  been  dead  to  her  all  these  years  be 
welcome  to  her  living?"  His  voice  dropped  into  low  vehe- 
mence, and  a  pallor  came  over  his  face  as  he  spoke. 

Phillis  laid  her  hand  on  his  own.  She  looked  strangely 
eager: 

"  This  is  why  you  want  my  help.  Ah!  I  see  now!  Oh.  it 
is  all  right — all  that  you  can  wish!  It  is  she  who  is  torment- 
ing herself,  who  has  no  rest  day  or  night!  ^Vhen  the  thunder 
came  that  evening — you  reuiember — we  sat  beside  the  chil- 
dren's empty  beds,  and  she  told  me  some  of  her  thoughts. 
When  the  lightning  flashed,  her  nerves  gave  way,  and  she  cried 
out,  in  her  pain,  '  Did  he  forgive?'  That  was  her  one 
thought.  '  Her  husband — who  was  up  in  heaven  with  the  chil- 
dren— did  he  think  mercifully  of  her,  and  know  how  she  loved 
him?  It  was  your  name  that  was  on  her  lips  wh^n  that  good 
woman,  Miss  Mewlstone,  hushed  her  in  her  arms  like  a  child. 
Oh,  be  comforted!"  faltered  Phillis,  "  for  she  loves  you,  aud 
mourns  for  you  as  though  she  were  the  most  desolate  creature 
living!"  But  here  she  paused,  for  something  that  sounded 
like  a  sob  came  to  her  ear,  and,  looking  round,  she  saw  the 
bowed  figure  of  her  companion  shaking  with  uncontrollable 


278  HOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIULS. 

emotion — those  liard,  tearless  sobs  that  are  ouly  wrung  from  a 
man's  strono-  agony. 

"Oh,  hushP'  cried  the  girl,  tenderly.  "Be  comforted: 
there  is  no  room  for  doubt.  There!  I  will  leave  you;  you 
will  be  better  by  and  by.''  And  then  instinctively  she 
turned  away  her  face  from  a  grief  too  sacred  for  a  stranger  to 
touch,  and  walked  down  to  the  water,  where  the  children  had 
ceased  playing,  and  listened  to  the  baby  waves  that  lapped 
about  her  feet. 

And  by  and  by  he  joined  her;  and  on  his  pale  face  there 
was  a  rapt,  serious  look,  as  of  one  who  has  despaired  and  has 
just  I'stened  to  an  angel's  tidings. 

"  Did  I  not  say  that  you,  and  only  you,  could  help  me? 
This  is  what  1  have  wanted  to  know:  had  Magdalene  forgiven 
me?  Now  I  need  wait  no  longer.  My  wife  and  home  are 
mine,  and  I  must  take  possession  of  my  treasures." 

He  stopped,  as  though  overcome  by  the  prospect  of  such 
happiness;  but  Phillis  timidly  interposed: 

"  But,  Mr.  Cheyne,  think  a  moment.  Hov/  is  it  to  be  man- 
aged? If  you  are  in  too  great  a  hurry,  will  not  the  shock  be 
too  much  for  her?  She  is  nervous — excitable.  It  would 
hardly  be  safe." 

"  That  is  what  troubles  me,"  he  returned,  anxiously.  "  It 
is  too  much  for  any  woman  to  bear;  and  Magdalene — she  was 
always  excitable.  Tell  me,  you  have  such  good  sense;  and, 
though  you  are  so  young,  one  can  always  rely  on  a  woman; 
you  understand  her  so  well — I  see  you  do — and  she  is  fond  of 
you — how  shall  we  act  that  my  poor  darling,  who  has  under- 
gone so  much,  may  not  be  harmed  by  me  any  more?" 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  returned  Phillis,  earnestly.  "  I  must 
consider."  And  she  set  herself  to  revolve  all  manner  of 
possibilities,  and  then  rejected  them  one  by  one.  "  There 
seems  no  other  way,"  she  observed,  at  last,  fixing  her  serious 
glance  on  Mr.  Cheyne,  "  I  must  seek  for  an  opportunity  to 
speak  to  Miss  Mewlstone.  It  must  be  broken  carefully  to 
your  poor  wife;  I  am  sure  of  that.  Miss  Mewlstone  will  help 
us.  She  will  tell  us  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  Oh!  she  is 
so  kind,  so  thoughtful  and  tender,  just  as  though  Mrs.  Cheyne 
were  a  poor  wayward  child  v/ho  must  be  guided  and  helped 
and  shielded.  1  like  her  so  much:  we  must  go  to  her  for 
counsel." 

"  You  must  indeed,  and  at  once!"  he  returned,  rather  per- 
emptorily; and  Phillis  had  a  notion  now  what  manner  of  man 
ho  had  been  before  misfortunes  had  tamed  and  subdued  him. 
His  eyes  flashed  with  eagerness;  he  grew  young,  alert,  full  ot 


NOT    LIKE    OTHIiR     GIRLS.  273 

life  in  a  moment  "  Forgive  me  if  I  am  too  impetuous;  but 
1  have  waited  so  long,  and  now  my  patience  seems  exhausted 
all  at  once  during  the  last  hour.  I  have  been  at  fever-point 
ever  since  you  have  proved  to  tue  that  my  wife— my  Magda- 
lene—has been  true  to  me.  Fool  that  1  was!  why  have  I 
doubted  so  long?  Miss  Challoner,  you  will  not  desert  me? 
you  will  be  my  good  angel  a  little  longer?  You  will  go  to 
Miss  Mewlstone  now — this  very  moment — and  ask  her  to  pre- 
pare my  wife?'* 

"  It  is  time  for  me  to  be  going  home:  mother  and  Nan  will 
think  I  am  lost,"  returned  Phillis,  in  a  quiet,  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "Come,  Mr.  Cheyne,  we  can  talk  as  we  go  along." 
For  he  was  so  wan  and  agitated  that  she  felt  uneasy  for  his 
sake.  She  took  his  arm  gently,  and  guided  him  as  though  he 
were  a  child,  and  he  obeyed  her  like  one. 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  speak  to  her  at  once,"  he  said, 
as  he  walked  beside  her  rather  feebly;  and  his  gait  became  all 
at  once  like  that  of  an  old  man.  But  Phillis  fenced  this  re- 
mark very  discreetly. 

"  This  afternoon  or  this  evening,  when  I  get  the  chance," 
she  said,  very  decidedly.  "  If  I  am  to  help  you,  it  must  be  as 
I  think  best,  and  at  m}'  own  time.  Do  not  think  me  unkind, 
for  I  am  doing  this  for  your  own  good:  it  would  not  help  you 
if  your  wife  were  to  be  brought  to  Ihe  brink  of  a  nervous  ill- 
ness. Leave  it  to  me.  Miss  Mewlstone  will  serve  us  best,  and 
she  will  know."  And  then  she  took  her  hand  from  his  arm, 
and  bade  him  drop  behind  a  little,  that  she  might  not  be  seen 
in  town  walking  with  him.  "  Good-bye!  keep  up  your  cour- 
age. I  will  help  you  all  1  can,"  she  said,  with  a  kindly  smile, 
as  he  reluctantly  obeyed  her  behest.  She  was  his  good  angel, 
but  he  must  not  walk  any  longer  in  her  shadow:  angels  do 
their  good  deeds  invisibly,  as  Phillis  hoped  to  do  hers.  He 
thought  of  this  as  he  watched  her  disappearing  in  the  distance. 

Phillis  walked  rapidly  toward  the  cottage.  Archie,  who  was 
letting  himself  in  at  his  own  door,  saw  the  girl  pass,  carrying 
her  head  high,  and  stepping  lightly,  as  though  she  were  tread- 
ing on  air.  "  Here  comes  Atalanta,"  he  said  to  himself;  but. 
though  a  smile  came  over  his  tired  face,  he  made  no  effort  to 
arrest  her.  The  less  he  saw  of  any  of  them  the  better,  he 
thought,  just  now. 

Nan  looked  up  reproachfully  as  the  truant  entered  the  work- 
room, and  Mrs.  Challoner  wore  her  gravest  expression:  evi- 
dently she  had  prepared  a  lecture  for  the  occasion.  Phillis 
looked  at  them  both  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Listen  to  me.  Nan  and  mother.     Oh,  I  am.  glad  Dulce  is 


S80  XOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

not  here,  she  is  so  young  and  giddy;  and  she  might  talk.  No, 
not  a  word  from  either  of  you  uutil  I  have  had  my  turn." 
And  then  she  began  her  story. 

Nan  listened  with  rapt,  speechless  attention,  but  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  gave  vent  to  little  pitying  moans  and  exclamations  of 
dismay. 

"  Oh,  my  child!"  she  kept  saying,  "  to  think  of  your  being 
mixed  up  in  such  an  adventure!  How  could  you  be  so  im- 
prudent and  daring?  Mrs.  Williams's  lodger — a  strange  man! 
in  that  outlandish  cloak,  too!  and  you  walked  home  with  him 
that  dark  night!  Oh,  Phillis,  I  shall  never  be  at  peace  about 
you  again!"  and  so  on. 

Phillis  bore  all  this  patiently,  for  she  knew  she  had  been 
incautious;  and  when  her  mother's  excitement  had  calmed 
down  a  little,  she  unfolded  to  them  her  plan. 

"  1  must  see  Miss  Mewlstone  quite  alone,  and  that  unfin- 
ished Frengh  merino  will  be  such  a  good  excuse.  Nan.  I  will 
take  the  body  with  me  this  afternoon,  and  beg  her  to  let  me 
try  it  on;  the  rest  must  come  afterward,  but  this  will  be  the 
best  way  of  getting  iier  to  myself."  And,  as  Nan  approved  of 
this  scheme,  and  Mrs.  Ohalloner  did  not  dissent,  Phillis  had 
very  soon  made  up  her  parcel,  and  was  walking  rapidly  toward 
the  White  House. 

As  she  turned  in  at  the  gates  she  could  see  a  shadow  on  the 
blind  in  Mrs.  Williams's  little  parlor,  and  waved  her  hand 
toward  it.  He  was  watching  her,  she  knew:  she  longed  to  go 
back  and  give  him  a  word  of  encouragement  and  exhortation 
to  patience;  but  some  one,  Mr.  Drummond,  perhaps,  might 
see  her,  and  she  dared  not  venture. 

She  sent  her  message  by  JefEreys,  and  Miss  Mewlstone  soon 
came  trotting  into  the  room;  but  she  wore  a  slightly  disturbed 
expression  on  her  good-natured  face. 

She  had  been  reading  the  third  volume  of  a  very  interesting 
novel,  and  had  most  unwillingly  laid  down  her  book  at  the 
young  dress-maker's  unseasonable  request.  Like  many  other 
stout  people.  Miss  Mewlstone  was  more  addicted  to  passivity 
than  activity  after  her  luncheon;  and,  being  a  creature  of 
habit,  this  departure  from  her  usual  rule  flurried  her. 

"  Dear,  dear!  to  think  of  your  wanting  to  try  on  that  French 
merino  again!"  she  observed;  "and  the  other  dress  fitted  so 
beautifully,  and  no  trouble  at  all.  And  there  has  Miss  Mid- 
dleton  been  calling  just  now,  and  saying  they  are  expecting 
her  brother  Hammond  home  from  India  in  November;  and  it 
is  getting  toward  the  end  of  September  now.  I  was  finishing 
my  book,  but  1  could  not  help  listening  to  her — she  has  such 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  28t 

a  sweet  voice.     Ah,  just  so — jnst  sol    But  areu^t  you  going 
to  open  your  parcel,  my  dear?" 

"  Never  mind  the  dress,"  returned  Phillis,  quickly.  "  Dear 
Miss  Mewlstone,  I  was  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  it  could  not 
be  helped.  Don't  look  at  the  parcel:  that  is  only  au  excuse. 
My  business  is  far  more  important.  I  want  you  to  put  on 
your  bonnet,  and  come  with  me  just  a  little  way  across  the 
road.     There  is  some  one's  identity  that  you  must  jjrove." 

Phillis  was  commencing  her  task  in  a  somewhat  lame 
fashion:  but  xMiss  Mewlstone  was  still  too  much  engrossed 
with  her  novel  to  notice  her  visitor's  singular  agitation. 

"  Ah,  just  so — just  so,"  she  responded;  "that  is  exactly 
what  the  last  few  chapters  have  been  about.  The  real  heir 
has  turned  up,  and  is  trying  to  prove  his  own  identity;  only 
he  is  so  changed  that  no  one  believes  him.  It  is  capitally 
worked  out.     A  very  clever  author,  my  dear — " 

But  Phillis  interrupted  her  a  littlt  eagerly: 

"  Is  that  your  tale,  dear  Miss  Mewlstone?  How  often  people 
say  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction!  Do  you  know,  I  have  heard 
a  story  in  real  life  far  more  wonderful  than  (hat?  Some  one 
was  telling  me  about  it  just  now.  There  was  a  man  whom 
every  one,  even  his  own  wife,  believed  to  be  dead;  but  after 
four  years  of  incredible  dangers  and  hardships— oh,  such  hard- 
ships!—he  arrived  safely  in  England,  and  took  i^p  his  abode 
just  within  sight  of  his  old  house,  where  he  could  see  his  wife 
and  find  out  all  about  her  without  being  seen  himself.  He 
put  on  some  sort  of  disguise,  1  think,  so  that  people  could 
not  find  him  out." 

"  That  must  be  a  made-up  story,  I  think,"  returned  Miss 
Mewlstone,  a  little  provokingly;  but  her  head  was  still  full  of 
her  book.  Poor  woman!  she  wanted  to  get  back  to  it.  She 
looked  at  Phillis  and  the  parcel  a  little  plaintivel3\  "Ah, 
just  so— a  very  pretty  story,  butimprobable— very  improbable, 
my  dear." 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  true!"  returned  Phillis,  so  vehemently 
that  Miss  Mewlstone's  little  blue  eyes  opened  more  widely. 
"  Never  mind  your  book.  I  tell  you  I  have  business  so  fmpor- 
tant  that  nothing  is  of  consequence  beside  it.  Where  is  Mrs. 
Cheyne?     She  must  not  know  we  are  going  out." 

"  Going  out!"  repeated  Miss  Mewlstone,  helplessly.  "  My 
dear,  I  never  go  out  after  luncheon,  as  Magdalene  knows.*'  " 

"  But  vouare  going  out  with  me,"  replied  Phillis,  promptly. 
"  Dear  Miss  Mewlstone,  1  know  I  am  perplexing  and  worry- 
ing you;  but  what  can  I  do?  Think  over  what  I  have  just 
said — about — about  that  improbable  story,  as  you  called  it; 


285  KOI    LIKE    OTHER    GIULS. 

and  then  you  will  iioi  be  so  dreail fully  startled.  Yon  must 
come  with  me  now  to  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage:  I  waut  you  to 
see  her  lodger." 

"  Her  lodger!"  Miss  Mewlstone  was  fully  roused  now;  and, 
indeed,  Phillis's  pale  face  and  suppressed  eager  tones  were  not 
without  their  due  effect.  Had  the  girl  taken  leave  of  her 
senses?  Why,  the  ladies  at  the  White  House  led  (he  lives  of 
recluses.  Why  should  she  be  asked  to  call  upon  any  stranger, 
but  especially  a  gentleman — Mrs.  Williams's  lodger?  "My 
dear,"  she  faltered,  "  you  are  very  strange  this  afternoon. 
Magdalene  and  I  seldom  call  on  any  one,  and  certainly  not 
on  gentlemen.'"' 

"  You  must  come  with  me,"  replied  Phillis,  half  crying  with 
excitement.  She  found  her  task  so  diflficult.  Miss  Mewlstone 
was  as  yielding  as  a  feather-bed  in  appearance,  and  yet  it  was 
impossible  to  move  hei-.  "  He  calls  himself  Mr.  Dancy;  but 
now  he  says  that  is  not  all  his  name:  let  me  whisper  it  in  your 
ear,  if  it  will  not  startle  you  too  much.  Think  of  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  and  try  and  command  yourself.  Mrs.  Williams's 
lodger  says  that  he  is  Herbert  Cheyne — poor  Mrs.  Cheyue's 
husband!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  BARBY,    don't    YOU    RECOLLECT   ME?" 

"  1  DO  not  believe  it — stuff  and  nonsense!  You  are  crazy, 
child,  to  come  to  me  with  this  trumped-up  story!  The  man 
is  an  impostor.  1  will  have  the  police  to  him.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  let  Magdalene  hear  this  nonsense!" 

Phillis  recoiled  a  few  steps,  speechless  with  amazement.  Miss 
Mevvlstone's  face  was  crimson;  her  small  eyes  were  sparkling 
with  angry  excitement:  all  her  softness  and  gentle  inanity  had 
vanished. 

"  Give  me  a  bonnet — shawl — anything,  and  1  will  put  this 
matter  straight  in  a  moment.  Where  is  Jeffreys?  King  the 
bell,  please,  Miss  Challoner!     I  must  speak  to  her." 

Phillis  obeyed  without  a  word. 

"  Ah,  just  so!  Jeffreys,"  resuming  her  old  purring  manner 
as  the  maid  appeared,  "  this  young  lady  has  a  friend  in 
trouble,  and  wants  me  to  go  down  to  the  cottage  with  her. 
Keep  it  from  your  mistress  if  you  can,  for  she  hates  hearing 
of  anything  sad;  say  we  are  busy — I  shall  be  in  to  tea — any- 
thing.    1  know  you  will  be  discreet,  Jeffreys." 

'Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Jeffreys,  adjusting  the  shawl  over 


ii 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  283 

Miss  Mewlstone's  shoulders;  "  but  this  is  your  garden-shawl, 
surely?" 

"  Oh,  it  does  not  matter;  it  will  do  very  well.  Now,  Miss 
Challoner,  I  am  ready."  And  so  noiseless  and  rapid  were  her 
movements  that  Phillis  had  much  to  do  to  keep  up  with  her. 

"  Won't  you  listen  to  me?"  she  pleaded.  "  Dear  Miss 
Mewlstone,  it  is  no  made-up  story;  it  is  all  true;"  but,  to  her 
astonishment.  Miss  Mewlstone  faced  round  upon  her  in  a  most 
indigjnaut  manner: 

"  Be  silent,  child!  I  can  not,  and  will  not,  hear  any  more. 
How  should  you  know  anything  about  it?  Have  you  ever  seen 
Herbert  Cheyne?  You  are  the  tool  of  some  impostor.  But  I 
will  guard  Magdalene;  she  shall  not  be  driven  mad.  No,  no, 
poor  dear!  she  shall  not,  as  loug  as  she  has  old  Bathsheba  to 
watch  over  her."  And  Phillis,  in  despair,  very  wisely  held 
her  peace.  After  all,  she  was  a  stranger:  had  she  any  proof 
but  Mr.  Dancy's  word? 

Just  toward  the  last.  Miss  Mewlstone's  pace  slackened;  and 
her  hand  shook  so,  as  she  tried  to  unlatch  the  little  gate,  that 
Phillis  was  obliged  to  come  to  her  assistance.  The  cottage 
door  stood  open,  as  usual,  but  there  was  no  tall  figure  lurking 
in  the  background — no  shadow  on  the  blind. 

"  We  had  better  go  in  there,"  whispered  Phillis,  pointing 
to  the  closed  door  of  the  parlor;  and  Miss  Mewlstone,  without 
knockijig,  at  once  turned  the  handle  and  went  in,  while  Phillis 
followed  trembling. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Miss  Mewlstone,  sternly,  "  I  have  come 
to  know  what  you  mean  by  imposing  your  story  on  this  child." 

Mr.  Dancy,  who  was  standing  with  his  back  to  them,  lean- 
ing for  support  against  the  little  mantel-shelf,  did  not  answer 
for  a  moment;  and  then  he  turned  slowly  round,  and  looked 
at  her. 

"Oh,  Barby!"  he  said,  "don't  you  recollect  me?"  And 
then  he  held  out  his  thin  hands  to  her  imploringly,  and  added, 
"  Dear  old  Barby!  but  you  are  not  a  bit  changed." 

"Herbert — why,  good  heavens!  Ah,  just  so — just  so!" 
gasped  the  poor  lady,  rather  feebly,  as  she  sat  down,  feeling 
her  limbs  were  deserting  her,  and  every  scrap  of  color  left  her 
face.  Indeed,  she  looked  so  flabby  and  lifeless  that  Phillis  was 
alarmed,  and  flew  to  her  assistance;  only  Mr.  Cheyne  waved 
her  aside  rather  impatiently. 

"  Let  her  be;  she  is  all  right.  She  knows  me,  you  see:  so 
I  can  not  be  so  much  altered.  Barby,"  he  went  on,  in  a  coax- 
ing voice,  as  he  knelt  beside  her  and  chafed  her  hands,  "you 
thought  I  was  an  impostor,  and  were  coming  to  threaten  nie: 


284:  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

were  you  not?  But  now  you  see  Miss  Challoner  was  in  the 
right.  Have  you  not  got  a  word  for  me?  Won't  you  talk  to 
me  about  Magdalene?    \\''e  have  got  to  prepare  her,  you  know. " 

Then,  as  he  spoke  his  wife's  name,  and  she  remembered  her 
sacred  charge,  the  faithful  creature  suddenly  fell  on  his  neck 
in  piteous  weeping. 

"  Oh,  the  bonny  face,"  she  wept,  "  that  has  grown  so  old, 
v/ith  the  sorrow  and  the  gray  hair!  My  dear,  this  will  just 
kill  her  with  joy,  after  all  her  years  of  bitter  widowhood. " 
And  then  she  cried  again,  and  stroked  his  face  as  though  he 
were  a  child,  and  then  wrung  her  hands  for  pity  at  the  changes 
she  saw.  "  It  is  the  same  face,  and  yet  not  the  same,"  she 
said,  by  and  by.  "  I  knew  the  look  of  your  e3^es,  my  bonny 
mun,  for  all  they  were  so  piercing  with  sadness.  But  what 
have  they  done  to  you,  Herbert — for  it  might  be  your  own 
ghost — 'SO  thin;  and  yet  you  are  brown,  too;  and  your  hair!" 
And  she  touched  the  gray  locks  over  the  temples  with  tender, 
fluttering  fingers. 

"  Magdalene  never  liked  gray  hairs,"  he  responded,  with  a 
sigh.  "  She  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  I  hear;  but  1  have  not 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  Tell  me,  Barby — for  I  have  grown 
timorous  with  sorrow — will  she  hate  the  sight  of  such  a  miser- 
able scarecrow?" 

"  My  dear!  hate  the  sight  of  her  own  husband,  who  is  given 
back  to  her  from  the  dead?  Ay,  I  have  much  to  hear.  Why 
did  you  never  write  to  us,  Herbert?  But  there!  you  have  all 
that  to  explain  to  her  by  and  by." 

"  Yes;  and  you  must  tell  me  about  the  children — my 
little  Janie,"  he  returned,  in  a  choked  voice. 

"  Ah,  the  dear  angels!  But,  Herbert,  you  must  be  careful. 
Nobody  speaks  of  them  to  Magdalene,  unless  she  does  herself. 
You  are  impetuous,  my  dear;  and  Magdalene — well,  she  has 
not  been  herself  since  you  left  her.  It  is  pining,  grief,  and 
the  dead  v/eight  of  loss  that  has  ailed  her,  being  childless  and 
widowed  at  once.  There,  there!  just  so.  We  must  be  tender 
to  her,  poor  dear!  and  things  will  soon  come  right." 

"  You  need  not  fear  me,  Barby.  I  have  learned  my  lesson 
at  last.  11  I  only  get  my  wife  back,  you  shall  see — you  shall 
see  how  I  will  make  up  to  her  for  all  I  have  ever  made  her 
suffer!  My  poor  girl!  my  poor  girl!"  And  then  he  shaded 
his  face,  and  v/as  silent. 

Phillis  had  stolen  out  in  the  garden,  and  sat  down  on  a  little 
bench  outside,  where  passers-by  could  not  discern  her  from  the 
road,  and  where  only  the  sound  of  their  voices  reached  her 
laiutly.     Now  and  then  chance  words  fell  on  her  ear — "  Mag- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  285 

dalene  "  over  and  over  again,  and  "  Janie  "  and  "  Bertie  " — 
ahvays  in  the  voice  she  had  so  admired.  By  and  by  she  heard 
her  own  name,  and  rose  at  once,  and  found  them  looking  for 
her. 

"  Here  is  my  good  angel,  Barby,"  observed  Mr.  Cheyne,  as 
she  came  up  smiling.  "  Not  one  girl  in  a  thousand  would 
have  acted  as  bravely  and  simply  as  she  has  done.  We  are 
friends  for  life.  Miss  Challoner,  are  we  not?''  And  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  Phillis  laid  her  own  in  it. 

"  I  was  a  bit  harsh  with  you,  dearie,  was  I  not?"  returned 
Miss  Mewlstone,  apologetically;  "  but  there:  you  were  such  a 
child  that  I  thought  you  had  been  deceived.  But  I  ought  to 
have  known  better,  craving  your  pardon,  my  dear.  Now  we 
will  just  go  back  to  Magdalene;  and  you  must  help  my  stupid 
old  head,  for  I  am  faidy  crazy  at  the  thought  of  telling  her. 
Go  buck  into,  the  parlor  and  lie  down,  Herbert,  for  you  are 
terribly  exhausted.  You  must  have  patience,  my  man,  a  wee 
bit  longer,  for  we  must  be  cautious — cautious,  you  see.'" 

"  Yes,  I  must  have  patience,"  he  responded,  rather  bitterly. 
But  he  went  back  into  the  room  and  watched  them  until  they 
disappeared  into  the  gates  of  his  own  rightful  paradise. 

Miss  Mawlstone  was  leaning  on  Phillis 's  arm.  Her  gait  was 
still  rather  feeble,  but  the  girl  was  talking  energetically  to  her. 

"  What  a  spirit  she  has!  just  like  Magdalene  at  her  age,'* 
he  thought,  "  only  Magdalene  never  possessed  her  even  tem- 
per. My  poor  girl!  From  what  Barby  says,  she  has  grown 
hard  and  bitter  with  trouble.  But  it  shall  be  my  aim  in  life 
to  comfort  her  for  all  she  has  been  through!"  And  then,  as 
he  thought  of  his  dead  children,  and  of  the  empty  nursery,  he 
groaned  and  threw  himself  face  downward  upon  the  couch. 
But  a  few  minutes  afterward  he  had  started  up  again,  unable 
to  rest,  and  began  to  pace  the  room;  and  then,  as  though  the 
narrow  space  confined  him,  he  continued  his  restless  walk  into 
the  garden,  and  then  into  the  shrubberies  of  the  White  House. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  not  as  young  as  I  was.  I  feel  as  if  all  this 
were  too  much  for  me,"  sighed  Miss  Mewlstone,  as  she  jjressed 
her  companion's  arm.  "  One  needs  so  much  vitality  to  bear 
such  scenes.  I  am  terrified  for  Magdalene,  she  has  so  little 
self-control!  and  to  have  him  given  back  to  her  from  the 
dead!  I  thank  God!  but  I  am  afraid,  for  all  that."  And  a 
few  more  quiet  tears  stole  over  her  cheeks. 

"  Thinking  of  it  only  makes  it  worse,"  returned  Phillis, 
feverishly.  She,  too,  dreaded  the  ordeal  before  them;  but  she 
was  young,  and  not  easily  daunted.  All  the  way  through  the 
shrubbery  she  talked  ou  breathlessly,  trying  to  rally  her  own 


S86  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

courage.     It  was  she  who  eutered  the  drawing-room  first,  for 
poor  Miss  Mewlstoue  had  to  efface  Lhe  sigus  of  her  agitation. 
Mrs.  Cheyue  looked  surprised  to  see  her  alone. 

"Jeffreys  told  me  you  and  Miss  Mewlstone  had  gone  out 
together  on  a  little  business.  What  have  you  done  with  poor 
old  Barby?"  And,  as  Phillis  answered  as  composedly  and  de- 
murely as  she  could,  Mrs.  Cheyne  arched  her  eyebrows  in  her 
old  satirical  way: 

"  She  is  in  the  room,  is  she?  Never  mind  answering,  if  you 
prefer  your  own  counsel.  Your  little  mysteries  are  no  busi- 
ness of  miue.  I  should  have  thought  the  world  would  have 
come  to"  an  end,  though,  before  Barby  had  thrown  down  the 
third  volume  of  a  novel  for  anything  short  of  a  fire.  But  you 
and  she  know  best."'  And,  as  Phillis  flushed  and  looked  con- 
fused under  her  scutiny,  she  gave  a  short  laugh  and  turned 
away. 

It  was  a  relief  when  Miss  Mewlstoue  came  trotting  into  the 
room  Vv'itli  her  cap-strings  awry. 

"  Dear,  dear!  have  w^e  kept  you  waiting  for  your  tea,  Mag- 
daleiie?"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  flurried  tone,  as  she  bustled  up 
to  the  table.  "  Miss  Challouer  iiad  a  little  business,  and  she 
thought  I  might  help  her.  Yes;  just  so!  I  have  brought 
her  in,  for  she  is  tired,  poor  thing!  and  I  knew  she  would  be 
welcome." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  both  tired.  You  are  as  hot 
as  though  you  had  walked  for  miles,  Barby.  Oh,  you  have 
your  secrets  too.  But  it  is  not  for  me  to  meddle  with  mys- 
teries."  And  then  she  laughed  again,  and  threw  herself  back 
on  her  couch,  with  a  full  understanding  of  the  discomfort  of 
the  two  people  before  her. 

Phillis  saw  directly  she  was  in  a  hard,  cynical  mood. 

"  You  shall  know  our  business  by  and  by,"  she  said,  very 
quietly,  "  Dear  Miss  Mewlstoue,  I  am  so  thirsty,  I  must  asic 
you  for  another  cup  of  tea, "  But,  as  Miss  Mewlstone  took  the 
cup  from  her,  the  poor  lady's  hand  shook  so  with  suppressed 
agitation  that  the  saucer  slipped  from  her  grasp,  and  the  next 
moment  the  costly  china  lay  in  fragments  at  her  feet. 

"  Dear!  dear!  how  dreadfully  careless  of  me!"  fumed  Miss 
Mewlstone. 

But  Mrs.  Cheyne  made  no  observation.  She  only  rang  the 
bell,  and  ordered  another  cup.  But,  when  the  servant  had 
withdrawn,  she  said,  coldly: 

"  Your  hand  is  not  as  steady  as  usual  this  evening,  Barby;" 
and  somehow  the  sharp,  incisive  tone  cut  so  keenly  that^  to 


1!?0T    LIKE    OTfiEtl    GIRLS.  28'J' 

Phlllis's  aiiinn.  Miss   Mewlstone  became  very  pale,  and  then 
suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"  This  is  too  much!"  observed  Mrs.  Cheyne,  rising  in  seri- 
ous displeasure.  She  had  almost  a  masculine  abhorrence  of 
tears  o£  late  years;  the  very  sight  of  them  excited  her 
strangely. 

"  Miss  Challouer  may  keep  her  mysteries  to  herself  if  she 
likes,  but  1  insist  on  knowing  what  has  upset  you  like  this." 

"  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  sobbed  the  simple  woman,  wringing 
her  hands  helplessly.  "  This  is  just  too  much  for  me!  Poor 
soul!  how  am  I  to  tell  her?"  An'd  then  she  looked  at  Phillis  in 
atf  right  at  her  own  words,  which  revealed  so  much  and  so  little. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  turned  exceedingly  pale,  and  a  shadow  passed 
over  her  face. 

"  '  Poor  soul!'  Does  she  mean  me?  Is  it  of  me  j^ou  are 
speaking,  Barby?  Is  there  something  for  me  to  know  that  you 
dread  to  tell  me?  Poor  soul,  indeed!"  And  then  her  features 
contracted  and  grew  pinched.  "  But  you  need  uot  be  afraid. 
Is  it  not  the  Psalmist  who  says,  '  All  thy  waves  and  thy  bil- 
lows have  gone  over  me  '?  Drowned  people  have  nothing  to 
fear:  there  is  no  fresh  trouble  for  them."  And  her  eyes  took 
an  aivful,  stony  look  that  terrified  Phillis. 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  fresh  trouble!"  stammered  the  girl.  "  People 
are  not  tormented  like  that:  they  have  not  to  suffer  more  than 
they  can  bear. " 

But  Mrs.  Cheyne  turned  upon  her  fiercely: 

"You  are  wrong — altogether  wrong.  1  could  not  bear  it, 
and  it  drove  me  mad — at  least  as  nearly  mad  as  a  sane  woman 
could  be.  I  felt  my  reason  shaken;  my  brain  was  all  aflame, 
and  1  cried  out  to  Heaven  for  mercy,  and  a  blank  answered 
me.  Barby,  if  there  be  fresh  trouble,  tell  me  instantly  and 
at  once.  What  do  I  care?  What  is  left  tome,  but  a  body 
that  will  not  die  and  a  brain  that  will  not  cease  to  think?  If 
I  could  only  stop  the  thoughts!  if  I  could  only  go  down  into 
silence  and  nothingness!  but  then  I  should  not  find  Herbert 
and  the  children.  Where  are  they?  I  forget!"  She  stopped, 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  brow  with  a  strange,  bewildered  ex- 
pression; but  Miss  Mewlstone  crept  up  to  her  and  touched 
her  timidly. 

''  My  bonny  Magdalene!"  she  exclaimed;  "  don't  let  the  ill 
thoughts  come;  drive  them  away,  my  poor  dear.  Look  at 
me.  Did  old  Barby  ever  deceive  you?  There  is  no  fresh 
trouble,  my  pretty.  In  His  own  good  time  the  All-Merciful 
has  had  mercy!" 


388  SrOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIELS. 

Mrs.  Clieyne's  hand  dropped  down  to  her  side,  but  hef 
brilliant  eyes  showed  no  cjuipi-ehension  of  her  words, 

"  Why  did  you  frighten  me  like  that?"  she  repeated,  rock- 
ing herself  to  and  fro;  and  her  voice  had  a  high,  strained  tone 
in  it.  "  There  is  no  trouble,  but  your  face  is  pale,  and  there 
are  tears  in  your  eyes;  and  look  how  your  hand  shakes!  Miss 
Challoner — Phillis,  what  does  she  mean?  Barby,  you  are  a 
iooiish  old  woman;  your  wits  are  gone." 

"  If  they  are  gone,  it  is  with  joy!"  she  sobbed.  "  Yes,  my 
precious  one!  for  sheer  joy!"  but  then  she  broke  down  ut- 
terly.    It  was  Phillis  who  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Cheyne,  1  think  I  could  tell  you  best,"  she  be- 
gan, in  lier  sensible  voice,,  which  somehow  stilled  Mrs.  Oheyne's 
frightful  agitation.  "  There  has  been  some  news — a  letter 
that  has  been  lost,  which  ought  to  have  arrived  some  months 
ago.  We  have  heard  about  \t  this  afternoon."  She  stopped, 
for  there  seemed  to  be  a  faint  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall  be- 
low. Could  he  have  followed  them?  What  would  be  the  re- 
sult of  such  imprudence?  But,  as  she  faltered  and  hesitated, 
Mrs.  Cheyne  gripped  her  arm  with  an  iron  force: 

"  A  letter  from  Herbert!  Did  he  write  to  me?  oh,  my 
darling!  did  he  write  to  me  before  he  died?  •  Only  one  word — 
one  word  of  forgiveness,  and  I  will  say  Heaven  indeed  is  merci- 
ful! Give  it  to  me,  Barby!  Why  do  ycm  keep  me  waiting? 
Oh,  this  is  blessed  news!"  But  Miss  Mewlstone  only  clasped 
her  gently  in  her  arms. 

"  One  moment,  my  dearie!  There  is  more  than  that.  It 
is  not  a  message  from  Heaven.  There  is^till  one  living  on 
earth  that  loves  you!  Try  and  follow  my  meaning,"  for  the 
perplexed  stare  had  returned  again.  "  Say  to  yourself,  '  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Herbert  is  not  dead.  Kobody  saw  him  die. 
He  may  be  alive;  he  may  have  written  to  me — '  "  She 
stopped,  for  Mrs.  Clieyne  had  suddenly  flung  up  her  arms 
over  her  head  with  a  hoarse  cry  that  rang  through  the  house: 

"  Herbert!     Herbert!     Herbert!" 

"  I  am  here — Magdalene!  Magdalene!"  A  tall  figure  that 
had  crept  unperceived  through  the  open  hall  door,  and  had 
lurked  unseen  in  the  shadow  of  the  portiere,  suddenly  dashed 
into  the  room,  and  took  his  wife's  rigid  form  into  his  arms. 
"  Magdalene — love — wife!  It  is  Herbert!  Look  up,  my  dar- 
ling! I  am  here!  I  am  holding  you!"  But  Ihere  was  no  re- 
sponse.    Magdalene's  face  was  like  the  face  of  the  dead. 

They  took  her  from  him  almost  by  force,  for  he  refused  to 
give  her  up.  Over  and  over  again  they  prayed  him  to  leave 
her  to  their  care,  but  he  seemed  like  a  man  that  did  not  hear. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  389 

•*  She  is  dead!  I  have  killed  her;  but  there  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  give  her  up,"  he  said,  with  terrible  calm  in  his  voice. 

"  She  is  not  dead!"  returned  Miss  Mewlstone,  almost  an- 
grily. "  She  has  been  like  this  before;  but  Jeffreys  and  I 
know  what  to  do.  Ay,  you  were  always  willful,  Herbert;  but 
-when  it  comes  to  killing  your  own  wife — "  And  after  this  he 
consented  to  lay  her  down  on  her  couch. 

He  watched  them  with  wistful  eyes  as  they  tried  the  usual 
remedies,  but  it  was  long  before  even  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid 
spoke  to  them  of  life.  At  the  first  sign  of  returning  anima- 
tion Herbert  crept  just  behind  his  wife's  pillow,  where  he 
could  see  the  first  unclosing  of  the  drooping  lids.  When  Mag- 
dalene opened  her  eyes  at  last,  they  fell  full  on  her  husband's 
face. 

Phillis,  who  was  beside  her,  marveled  at  the  strange  beauty 
of  that  rapt  look,  as  she  lay  and  gazed  at  him. 

"  Herbert's  face!"  they  heard  her  whisper,  in  an  awe-struck 
voice.  "  Then  I  have  died  at  last,  and  am  in  heaven.  Oh, 
how  merciful!  but  1  have  not  deserved  it — a  sinner  such  as  1." 

"  Magdalene,  my  darling,  you  are  in  our  own  home!  It  is 
I  who  was  lost  and  have  come  back  to  you.  Look  at  me. 
It  is  only  the  children  who  are  in  heaven.  You  and  I  are 
spared  to  each  other  on  earth. "  But  for  a  long  time  her  scat- 
tered faculties  failed  to  grasp  the  truth. 

Phillis  went  home  at  last  and  left  them.  There  was  noth- 
ing she  could  do,  and  she  was  utterly  spent;  but  Miss  Mewl- 
stone kept  watch  beside  her  charge  until  late  into  the  night. 

Little  by  little  the  truth  dawned  on  the  numbed  brain; 
slowly  and  by  degrees  the  meaning  of  her  husband's  tears 
and  kisses  sunk  into  the  clouded  mind.  'Now  and  again  she 
wandered,  but  Herbert's  voice  always  recalled  her. 

"  Then  I  am  not  dead?"  she  asked  him,  again  and  again. 
"  IMiey  do  not  cry  in  heaven,  and  Barby  was  crying  just  now. 
Barby,  am  I  dreaming?  Who  is  this  beside  me?  is  it  Her- 
bert's ghost?  only  his  hands  are  warm,  and  mine  are  so  terri- 
bly cold.  Why,  you  are  crying  too,  love;  but  1  am  too  tired 
to  understand."  And  then  she  crept  wearily  closer  and  closer 
into  his  arms,  like  a  tired-out  child  who  has  reached  home. 

And  when  Herbert  stooped  over  her  gently  he  saw  that  the 
long  lashes  lay  on  her  cheek.     Magdalene  had  fallen  asleep. 


^00  2701    LIKE    OTHEE    QIBLS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

MOTES   IN"  THE   SUNSHINE. 

That  sleep  was,  huuiauly  speakiug,  Magdalene*s  salvation. 

At  the  greatest  crisis  of  her  life,  whea  reasou  hung  iu  the 
balance — when  the  suJden  influx  of  joy  might  have  paralyzed 
the  overwrought  heart  and  brain— at  that  moment  physical 
exhaustion  saved  her  by  that  merciful,  overpowering  sleep. 

When  she  woke,  it  was  to  the  resurrection  of  her  life  and 
love.  Months  afterward  she  spoke  of  that  waking  to  Phillis, 
when  she  lay  in  her  bed  weak  as  a  new-born  babe,  and  the 
early  morning  light  streamed  full  on  the  face  of  her  slumber- 
ing husband. 

They  were  alone;  for  Miss  Mewlstone  had  just  crept  softly 
from  the  room.  Her  movement  had  roused  Magdalene. 
Herbert,  who  was  utterly  worn  out  by  his  long  watching,  had 
just  dropped  asleep,  with  his  head  resting  against  the  wood- 
work. He  was  still  sitting  in  the  arm-chair  beside  her,  and 
only  the  thin  profile  was  visible. 

The  previous  night  had  been  passed  by  Magdalene  iu  a 
semi-conscious  state:  delirious  imaginations  had  blended 
with  realities.  There  were  flashes  and  intervals  of  compara- 
tive consciousness,  when  the  truth  rushed  into  her  mind;  but 
she  had  been  too  weak  to  retain  it  long.  That  she  was  dream- 
ing or  dead  was  her  fixed  idea;  that  this  was  her  husband's 
greeting  to  her  in  paradise  seemed  to  be  her  one  thought. 
"  Strange  that  the  children  do  not  kiss  me,  too,"  they  heard 
her  say  once. 

But  now,  as  she  opened  her  eyes,  there  was  no  blue  misty 
haze  through  which  she  ever  feebly  sought  to  pierce.  She  was 
lying  in  her  own  room,  where  she  had  passed  so  many  despair- 
ing days  and  nights.  The  windows  were  open;  the  sweet,  crisp 
morning  air  fanned  her  temples;  the  birds  were  singing  in  the 
garden  below;  and  there  beside  her  was  the  face  so  like,  yet  so 
unlike,  the  face  from  which  she  had  parted  four  years  ago. 

For  a  little  while  she  lay  and  watched  in  a  sort  of  trance; 
and  then  in  the  stillness  full  realization  came  to  her,  and  she 
knew  that  she  was  not  mad  or  dreaming.  This  was  no  imag- 
ination; it  was  reality. 

With  incredible  effort,  for  she  felt  strangely  weak,  she 
raised  herself  on  her  elbow  to  study  that  dear  face,  more 
closftiy,  for  the  change  in  it  batMed  her.  Could  this  be  her 
Herbert?    How  bronzed  and  thin  he  had  grown!    Those  lines 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  291 

that  furrowed  his  forehead,  those  hollows  in  the  temjales  and 
under  the  eyes,  were  new  to  her.  And,  oh,  the  pity  of  those 
gray  hairs  in  the  place  of  the  brown,  wavy  locks  she  remem- 
bered 1  But  it  was  when  she  laid  her  lips  against  the  scarred 
wrist  that  Herbert  woke,  and  met  the  full  look  of  recognition 
in  his  wife's  eyes,  for  which  he  had  waited  so  long. 

Now  he  could  fall  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and  crave  that 
forgiveness  for  words  and  acts  that  had  seared  his  conscience 
all  these  years  like  red-hot  iron.  But  at  the  first  word  she 
stopped  him,  and  drew  his  head  to  her  breast: 

"  Oh,  Herbert,  hush!  What!  ask  forgiveness  of  me,  when 
I  have  sinned  against  you  doubly — trebly — when  1  was  no  true 
wife,  as  you  know?  Oh,  do  not  let  us  ask  it  of  each  other, 
but  of  God,  whom  we  have  so  deeply  offended!  He  has  pun- 
ished us,  but  He  has  been  merciful  too.  He  has  taken  our 
children  because  we  did  not  deserve  them.  Oh,  Herbert! 
what  will  you  do  without  them — for  you  loved  Janie  so!'* 
And  then,  for  a  little  while  the  childless  parents  could  only 
hold  each  other's  hands  and  weep,  for  to  Herbert  Cheyne  the 
grief  was  new,  and  at  the  sight  of  her  husband's  soltow  Mag- 
dalene's old  wounds  seemed  to  open  and  bleed  afresh;  only 
now — now  she  did  not  weep  alone. 

When  Miss  Mewlstone  entered  the  room,  shortly  afterward, 
she  found  Magdalene  lying  spent  and  weary,  holding  her  hus- 
band's hand. 

Joy  had  indeed  returned  to  the  White  House,  but  for  a  long 
time  it  was  joy  that  was  strangely  tempered  with  sorrow. 
Upstairs  no  sound  greeted  Herbert  from  the  empty  nurseries; 
there  was  no  little  feet  pattering  to  meet  the  returned  wan- 
derer, no  little  voices  to  cry  a  joyous  *'  Father!"  And  for 
years  the  desolate  mother  had  borne  this  sorrow  alone. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  Magdalene  regained  her  strength 
slowly,  but  neither  wife  nor  husband  could  hide  from  each 
other  the  fact  that  their  health  was  broken  by  all  they  had 
gone  through.  Herbert's  constitution  was  sadly  impaired  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life;  he  knew  well  that  he  must  carry 
with  him  the  consequences  of  those  years  of  suffering.  Often 
he  had  to  endure  intense  neuralgic  agony  in  his  limbs  and 
head;  an  unhealed  wound  for  a  longtime  troubled  him  sorely. 
Magdalene  strove  hard  to  regain  strength,  that  she  might 
devote  herself  to  nurse  him,  but,  though  her  constitution  was 
superb,  she  had  much  to  bear  from  her  disordered  nerves.  At 
times,  the  old  irritability  was  hard  to  vanquish;  there  were 
still  dark  moods  of  restlessness  when  her  companionship  was 


392  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

trying;  but  it  was  now  that  Herbert  proved  the  nobleness  and 
reality  of  his  repentance. 

For  he  was  ever  gentle  with  her,  however  much  she  might 
try  him.  Some  talk  he  had  had  with  her  doctor  had  con- 
vinced him  that  she  was  not  to  blame  for  these  morbid  moods, 
that  the  nerves  had  become  disorganized  by  those  years  of  sol- 
itary misery.  "  We  must  bear  all  our  troubles  together/'  as 
he  often  told  her;  and  so  he  bore  this,  as  he  did  the  trial  of 
his  children's  loss,  with  grave  fortitude,  and  a  patience  that 
surprised  all  who  knew  him. 

And  he  was  not  without  his  reward,  for,  the  dark  fit  over, 
Magdalene's  smile  would  greet  him,  like  sunshine  after  a 
storm,  and  she  would  thank  him  with  tears  and  caresses  for 
his  forbearance. 

"  1  can't  think  what  makes  me  still  so  horrid,  when  I  am 
80  happy,"  she  said  once  to  him,  when  the  first  year  of  their 
reunion  bad  passed.  "  I  do  my  best  to  fight  against  these 
moods,  but  they  seem  stronger  than  myself  and  overcome  me. 
Do  not  be  so  good  to  me  next  time,  Herbert;  scold  me  and  be 
angry  with  me,  as  you  used  in  the  old  days." 

"  I  can  not,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  1  never  loved  you 
in  the  old  days  as  I  do  now.  1  would  not  change  my  wife, 
in  spite  of  all  the  trouble  she  gives  me,  for  any  other  woman 
upon  earth.  You  believe  this,  love,  do  you  not.'^"  looking  at 
her  beautiful  face  anxiously,  for  it  had  clouded  a  little  at  his 
last  words. 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  to  trouble  you:  it  is  that  which  frets 
me.  1  wauited  to  be  a  comfort  to  you,  and  never  to  give  you 
a  moment's  uneasiness;  but  I  can  not  help  myself,  somehow. 
I  love  you;  I  don't  believe  you  know  yet  how  1  lave  you,  Her- 
bert; but  it  seems  as  if  1  must  grieve  you  sometimes." 

"  Never  mind;  I  will  bear  your  trouble  and  my  own  too,'* 
he  ajiswered,  cheerily;  and  in  this  way  he  always  comforted 
her.  But  to  Magdalene  her  own  self  ever  remained  a  mys- 
tery; the  forces  of  her  own  nature  were  too  strong  for  her, 
and  yet  she  was  not  a  weak  woman.  She  had  expected  that 
in  her  case  love  and  happiness  would  have  worked  a  miracle, 
as  though  miracles  were  ever  affected  by  mere  human  agencies 
— that  she  would  rise  like  a  phenix  from  the  ashes  of  her 
past,  reborn,  rejuvenated,  with  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  moral 
strength. 

Now  she  had  Herbert,  all  would  go  smoothly;  she  would  no 
longer  mourn  for  her  little  ones.  Since  her  husband  was  there 
to  comfort  her,  with  his  constant  presence  to  sustain  her,  all 
must  be  well;  never  again  would  she  be  nervous,  irritable,  or 


1 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  293 

sarcastic.  Poor  Magdalene!  she  was  creating  heaven  for  her- 
self upon  earth;  she  was  borrowing  angels'  plumes  before  the 
time,  shp  had  forgotten  the  conditions  of  humanity,  "  the  body 
of  the  flesh,"  which  weighed  down  greater  souls  than  hers. 

There  are  Gethsemaiies  of  the  spirit  to  the  weary  ones  of 
earth,  hours  of  conflict  that  must  be  lived  through  and  en- 
dured. Nature  that  groaneth  and  travaileth  can  not  find  its 
abiding-place  of  rest  here.  To  the  end  of  time  it  seems  to 
be  written  in  enduring  characters  that  no  human  lot  shall  be 
free  from  suffering:  sooner  or  later,  more  or  less — that  is  all! 
Magdalene  had  still  to  learn  this  lesson  painfully:  that  she 
was  slow  in  learning  it,  proved  the  strength  and  obduracy  of 
her  will.  True,  she  was  rarely  sarcastic — never  in  her  hus- 
band's presence,  for  a  word  or  a  look  from  him  checked  her, 
and  she  grew  humble  and  meek  at  once.  It  was  her  unruly 
nerves  that  baffled  her;  she  was  shocked  to  find  that  irritable 
words  still  rose  to  her  lips;  that  the  spirit  of  restlessness  was 
not  quelled  forever;  that  thunder  still  affrighted  her;  and 
that  now  and  then  her  mind  seemed  clouded  with  fancied 
gloom. 

She  once  spoke  of  this  to  Miss  Middleton,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

'*  It  is  so  strange,"  she  said.  "  Herbert  is  different,  but  1 
am  still  so  unchanged." 

"  The  conditions  of  your  health  are  unchanged,  you  mean," 
answered  Elizabeth,  with  that  quiet  sympathy  that  always 
rested  people.  "  This  is  the  mistake  that  folk  make:  they 
do  not  distinguish  between  an  unhealthy  mind  and  a  diseased 
soul:  the  one  is  due  to  physical  disorganization,  the  other  to 
moral  causes.  In  your  case,  dear  Mrs.  Cheyne,  one  may 
safely  lay  the  blame  on  the  first  cause." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  she  asked,  earnestly.  "  I  dare 
not  cheat  my  conscience  in  that  way;  it  is  my  bad  temper, 
my  undisciplined  nature,  that  ought  to  bear  the  blame." 

"  No;  believe  me,"  answered  Elizabeth,  for  they  had  grown 
great  friends  of  late,  "  I  have  watched  you  narrowly,  and  1 
know  how  you  try  to  conquer  this  irritability;  there  is  no 
black  spot  of  anger  in  your  heart,  whatever  words  come  to 
your  lips.  You  are  like  a  fretful  child  sometimes,  I  grant 
you  that,  who  is  ailing  and  unconscious  of  its  ailment.  AVhen 
you  would  be  calm  you  are  strangely  disturbed;  you  speak 
sharply,  hoping  to  relieve  something  that  oppresses  you." 

"Oh,  yes!"  sighed  Magdalene;  "and  yet  Hei-k#rt  never 
■peaks  crossly  to  me." 

•'  Jie  never  will,  for  he  knows  what  you  suffer.     W^l,  dear 


294  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

friend,  what  of  this!  This  is  a  cross  that  you  must  carry  per- 
haps all  your  life.  You  are  uot  the  only  one  who  has  to  bear 
the  torment  of  disordered  nerves;  it  must  be  borne  wi!.h  resig- 
nation, as  we  bear  olher  troubles.  Oiice  you  felt  you  could 
not  love  God;  you  ceased  to  pray  to  Him;  now  you  love  Him 
a  little.  Go  on  loving;  thank  Him  for  your  husband's  pa- 
tience, and  pray  that  you  may  have  patience  with  yourself. 
One  is  weary  of  always  living  with  one's  self,  I  know  that 
well,"  finished  Elizabeth,  with  a  charming  smile. 

Mr.  Drummond  would  have  verified  Miss  Middleton's  opin- 
ion that  Magdalene  was  not  so  unchanged  as  she  believed  her- 
self to  be. 

At  his  first  interview  with  her  after  Herbert  Cheyue's  re- 
turn, he  could  almost  have  sworn  that  she  was  a  different 
woman. 

Phillis,  who  spent  all  her  spare  time  at  the  White  House — 
for  they  both  made  much  of  Herbert's  "good  angel,"  as  he 
still  called  her,  jestingly — was  sitting  alone  with  Mrs.  Clieyne 
when  Archie  was  announced. 

His  old  enemy  greeted  him  with  a  frank  smile. 

"  This  is  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Drummond,"  she  said,  quite 
warmly.  "  How  I  wish  my  husband  were  not  out,  that  I 
could  introduce  him  to  you!  I  have  told  him  how  good  you 
have  tried  to  be  to  me,  but  that  I  was  ungrateful  and  repulsed 
you." 

Archie  was  shaking  hands  with  Phillis,  who  seemed  a  little 
disturbed  at  his  entrance.  He  turned  around  and  regarded 
the  beautiful  woman  with  astonishment.  Was  this  really  Mrs. 
Cheyne.''  Where  was  the  hard,  proud  droop  of  the  lip,  the 
glance  of  mingled  coolness  and  hauteur,  the  polished  sarcasm 
of  voice  and  manner?  Her  face  looked  clear  and  open  as  a 
child's;  her  eyes  were  brilliant  with  happiness. 

Magdalene  was  in  one  of  her  brightest  moods  when  she  was 
most  truly  herself. 

"  I  have  met  him  just  now.  He  stopped  and  introduced 
himself.  We  had  quite  a  long  talk  outside  of  Mrs.  Williams's 
cottage.  I  called  upon  him  there,  you  know,  but  he  had  good 
reasons  for  refusing  my  visits.  Mrs.  Cheyne,  you  must  allow 
me  to  congratulate  you  most  earnestly.  You  will  own  now 
that  Providence  has  been  good  to  you. " 

■'  I  will  own  that  and  everything,"  returned  Magdalene,  joy- 
ously. "  I  will  own,  if  you  like,  that  I  treated  you  shame- 
fully, and  took  a  pleasure  in  tormenting  you;  and  you  were  so 
oatient — oh-  so  patient,  Mr.  Drummond!     J  could  have  called 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  295 

you  back  sometimes  and  apologized,  but  I  would  not.  In  my 
Ditter  moments  I  felt  it  was  such  a  relief  to  mock  at  people/' 

"  Never  mind  all  that.  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  I  wish 
I  could  have  served  you  better/'  And  then,  as  he  changed 
the  subject,  and  spoke  feelingly  about  the  miracle  Of  her  hus- 
band's restoration,  Mrs.  Cheyne  looked  at  him  rather  wist- 
fully. 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are!"  she  said,  softly.  "Do  you 
know,  the  world  seems  to  me  full  of  good  people  now;  and  yet  it 
once  appeared  too  bad  a  place  for  any  one  to  live  in.  We 
create  our  own  atmosphere — at  least  so  Herbert  tells  me.  But 
you  are  looking  thin,  Mr.  Drummoud — thin  and  pale.  You 
must  he  working  too  hard." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  hard  work  never  hurts  any  one,"  he  re- 
plied, carelessly;  but  there  was  something  forced  in  his  tone. 

Phillis,  who  had  been  sitting  apart  quite  silently,  raised  her 
eyes  involuntarily  from  her  work.  Was  it  her  fancy,  or  had 
some  uiidefinable  change  passed  over  him?  They  had  seen 
him  so  little  of  late.  Since  all  this  had  happened  at  the  Wliite 
House  he  had  called  once  or  twice;  and  once  Nan  had  been 
there,  and  he  had  spoken  to  her  much  as  usual.  No  one 
would  have  detected  any  difference  in  his  manner,  except  that 
he  was  a  little  grave  and  preoccupied.  Nan  had  not  noticed 
anything;  but,  then,  she  was  singularly  blind  in  such  matters. 
Had  she  not  vaguely  hinted  that  his  visits  were  on  Phillis's 
account?  that  mere  hint  conveying  exquisite  pain  to  Phillis. 

Now,  as  she  stole  a  glance  at  him,  the  conviction  was  strong 
within  her  that  the  arrow  had  gone  deep.  He  certainly  looked 
a  little  thin  and  care-worn,  and  eomeihing  of  a  young  man's 
vigor  and  hopefulness  seemed  temporarily  impaired.  But,  as 
it  happened,  that  girlish  scrutiny  was  not  unperceived  by 
Archie.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  the  alert.  His  eyes  chal- 
lenged her  boldly,  and  it  was  Phillis  who  flushed  and  looked 
conscious. 

It  was  as  though  he  said  to  her,  "  Ah!  you  think  you  know 
all  about  it.  But  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  be  sorry 
for  me;  you  do  not  know  what  a  man's  strength  can  do. 
And  I  am  determined  to  bear  this  by  myself,  and  to  myself; 
for  in  silence  there  is  power." 

It  certainly  seemed  as  though  a  new  strength  had  come  to 
Archie.  He  had  been  a  man  who  was  prone  to  speak  much 
of  his  feelings.  Irritable  and  sensitive,  he  had  demanded  much 
sympathy  from  his  womankind.  His  was  a  nature  that  craved 
support  i!i  hi^  work;  but  now.  not  even  to  Grace,  could  he 
speak  of  this  trouble  that  had  befallen  him. 


S96  KOX    LIKE    OTHER    GlRLg. 

Was  it  a  trouble,  after  all,  this  vague  shadow  that  lay  about 
his  path?  No  one  but  he  himself  knew  the  sweetness  and 
graciousness  of  the  dream  that  had  come  to  him.  It  had  only 
been  a  dream,  after  all;  and  now  he  was  awake.  The  vision 
he  had  conjured  up  to  himself  had  faded  into  unreality.  She 
was  not  his  second  self:  never  by  look  or  word  had  he  wooed 
her;  she  was  only  the  woman  he  could  have  loved.  This  was 
how  he  put  it;  and  now  he  would  bury  this  faint  hojie  that 
was  still-born — that  had  never  had  breathed  into  it  the  breath 
of  life.  And  if  for  a  little  while  his  future  should  be  cloudy 
and  bereft  of  its  sunshine,  was  he  the  only  one  to  whom  "  some 
days  must  be  dark  and  dreary?'' 

Phillis's  unspoken  sympathy  drooped  under  this  stern  repres- 
sion: and  yet  in  her  heart  she  reverenced  him  all  the  more  for 
this  moral  strength  —  for  there  is  nothing  a  true  woman  abhors 
more  than  weakness  in  a  man.  After  this  silent  rebuff,  Archie 
took  himself  well  in  hand,  and  began  to  speak  of  other  things: 
he  told  Mrs.  Cheyne,  being  certain  now  of  her  interest,  of  his 
sister's  intended  marriage,  and  how  he  and  Mattie  were  going 
down  to  the  wedding. 

"  He  is  a  very  good  fellow,  this  intended  brother-in-law  of 
mine — a  sort  of  rough  diamond;  but  hardly  good  enough  for 
Isabel,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  yes,  ho  is  very  rich.  My  poor  little 
sister  will  have  her  head  turned  by  all  her  magiiificence;  for 
his  parents  are  so  generous,  they  quite  load  her  with  gifts," 
And  he  smiled  to  himself  at  the  notion  of  his  little  sister,  just 
fresh  from  her  narrow  school-room  life,  rejoicing  over  her 
trousseau  and  her  handsome  house,  and  driving  away  from 
the  church  in  her  own  carriage.  No  wonder  his  father  and 
mother  were  pleased.  As  for  the  bridegroom-elect,  Archie 
spoke  of  him  with  half-contemptuous  amusement:  "  Oh,  he 
was  a  good  fellow — no  one  wished  to  deny  that;"  but  there 
was  a  want  of  culture  and  polish  that  grated  upon  the  suscep- 
tibilities of  the  Oxford  fellow. 

Phillis  listened  with  undivided  interest — especially  when  he 
mentioned  Grace. 

"  Mattie  and  1  are  in  hope  that  we  shall  bring  her  back  with 
us;  but,  at  all  events,  my  mother  has  promised  to  spare  her 
at  Christmas."     This  time  he  addressed  himself  to  Phillis. 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  nice  for  you!"  she  returned,  a  little 
eagerly.  "  You  have  told  us  so  much  about  her  that  I  quite 
long  to  know  her." 

"  1  should  say  you  would  suit  each  other  perfectly,"  he  re* 
plied,  as  he  rose  to  take  his  leave.  "  Sometimes  you  remind 
me  of  her.  Miss  Challouer;  and  yet  you  are  not  really  alike. 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  29? 

Good -bye,  if  I  do  not  see  you  again  before  we  go  to  Leeds.*' 
And  Phillis  gave  him  her  hand  and  a  cordial  smile. 

But  ivhen  he  had  gone  out  of  the  room,  his  hostess  accom- 
panying him — for  she  had  a  word  for  his  private  ear — Phillis 
sat  down  and  thought  over  those  last  words  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  pleasure:  "  Sometimes  you  remind  me  of  her.  Miss 
Challouer."  Was  it  possible  that  he  could  trace  any  resem- 
blance between  her  and  this  dearly  beloved  sister,  this  Grace, 
whom  he  seemed  to  regard  as  absolute  perfection? 

"  Oh,  I  hope  she  will  come!  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  such 
fx'iends,"  she  said  to  herself:  and  from  this  time  Phillis  looked 
anxiously  for  Grace  Drummond's  arrival. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

*•  A   MAN  HAS  A  RIGHT  TO  HIS  OWN"   THOUGHTS." 

There  were  great  rejoicings  in  the  house  in  Lowder  Street 
on  the  occasion  of  Isabel  Drummond's  marriage. 

There  is  always  something  pathetic  in  the  first  wedding  in  a 
family — the  first  severing  of  the  family  circle — the  first  break 
— the  first  ingathering  of  new  interest.  But  when  there  are 
small  means,  and  seven  portionless  daughters,  very  few  of 
whom  can  be  said  to  be  gifted  wilh  good  looks,  a  wealthy  son- 
in-law  must  indeed  be  regarded  as  a  direct  blessing  from  Provi- 
dence. 

That  Mr.  Drummond  did  so  regard  it  was  evident  from  the 
jovial  good  humor  that  had  replaced  his  usual  moody  and  ir- 
ritable manner;  while  his  wife's  beaming  face,  softened  by 
maternal  tenderness  for  the  child  who  would  no  longer  share 
the  daily  life  with  them,  was  a  surprising  spectacle  to  those 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Drummond's  ordinary  reserve  and  some- 
what severe  bearing.  But  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  on 
this  occasion  Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  happy  woman. 

The  tide  of  fortune,  long  so  adverse  to  their  interests,  seemed 
turning  in  their  favor  at  last.  Archie  had  done  great  things 
for  himself,  and  the  mother's  eyes  rested  on  him  proudly  as 
he  performed  the  marriage  ceremony  for  his  young  sister,  the 
gravity  of  his  priestly  oflQce  setting  him  apart,  as  it  were,  for 
her  reverence  as  well  as  love.  That  Isabel  had  done  great 
things  for  herself  also  could  not  be  denied.  But  there  were 
other  causes   for  content  in  the  mother's  heart. 

Both  the  boys  were  doing  w^ll.  Clvde  had  been  articled  to 
a  lawyer,  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Drummond,  and  had  won 
golden  opinions  from  his  chief,  who  pronounced  him  an  in- 


298  NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GIRLS. 

telligent,  likely  lad,  and  as  sharp  as  a  ueedle.  Fred  had  lately 
obiaiued  a  clerkship  in  an  old-established  house  in  Leeds,  and 
was  also  doing  well,  and  his  salary  was  a  great  boon  to  the 
straitened  household.  Grace,  too.  was  doing  her  duty  vigor- 
ously, and  no  longer  vexed  her  mother's  soul  by  her  drooping 
looks  or  uncomplaining  discontent — that  silent  protest  of 
many,  that  is  so  irritating  to  the  home-rule.  True,  it  might 
be  only  the  quiescence  of  despair,  but  at  least  she  veiled  it  de- 
cently under  a  show  of  Spartan  cheerfulness.  The  fox  of  bit- 
terness might  gnaw,  but  she  drew  the  mantle  of  her  pride 
closer  round  her.  She  might  suffer  and  pine,  like  a  prisoned 
lark,  in  her  narrow  cage,  but  at  least  no  one,  not  even  Archie, 
and  least  of  all  her  mother,  should  guess  the  extent  of  her 
sufferings.  So  there  was  peace  in  Lowder  Street.  A  truce 
had  silently  proclaimed  itself  between  the  two  strong  wills  of 
the  household;  and,  touched  by  a  submission  that  somehow  ap- 
pealed to  her  generosity,  Mrs.  Drummond  was  secretly  revolv- 
ing schemes  for  her  daughter's  future  happiness. 

"  Mothers  are  mothers,"  as  Nan  had  once  sweetly  said,  and 
Mrs.  Drummond  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  She  could  be 
hard  to  her  own  flesh  and  blood;  she  could  exact  obedience 
tliat  was  difficult  to  yield,  and  sacrifices  that  cost  tears  in 
plenty;  but  she  was  a  just  woman,  and,  when  the  right  time 
came,  she  knew  how  to  reward  such  obedience. 

But  there  was  still  another  drop  that  filled  the  maternal  cap 
of  content  almost  to  overflowing,  and  of  this  she  spoke  to 
Grace,  as  they  were  together  in  the  mother's  room,  folding 
up  the  bridal  finery.  The  little  bride  bad  just  driven  off,  all 
tears  and  smiles.  Archie  and  the  boys  had  started  off  for  a 
long  walk.  Mattie  was  with  her  sisters  in  the  small,  ugly  in- 
closure  they  called  a  garden,  and  Grace  and  her  mother  had 
goiie  up  to  shake  out  the  satin  dress  and  lay  it  between  tissue 
paper. 

"I  hope  she  will  be  happy,  poor  little  dear!"  observed 
Grace,  touching  tenderly  the  Brussels  lace  veil;  for  Isabel  had 
been  her  first  pupil  and  charge.  "  I  do  think  and  believe 
Ellis  is  really  very  fond  of  her." 

"  Without  doubt  he  is.  His  manners  were  all  your  father 
and  1  could  wish.  What  a  magnificent  present,  and  how 
thoughtful,  his  bringing  those  diamond  ear-drops  just  at  the 
last  moment!  Isabel  has  such  pretty  little  ears.  He  is  as 
proud  of  her  as  he  can  be.  And  really  she  looked  quite  lovely. 
Take  care  how  you  fold  that  veil,  Grace.  It  is  a  perfect 
beauty." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  returned  Grace,  meekly. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  S99 

She  was  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue,  for  she  had  been  up 
aiuce  six,  and  had  dressed  all  her  sisters  oue  after  another  in 
their  pretty  bride-maids'  dresses,  Mattie's  skill  us  a  lady's- 
maid  being  distrusted  even  by  Dcttie.  But  Mrs.  Drummoad 
was  not  satisfied,  and  took  the  lace  out  of  her  hand. 

"  And,  Grace,  did  you  ever  see  any  one  so  improved  as 
Mattie?  Her  visit  to  Hadleigh  is  doing  wonders  for  her.  Last 
evening  I  could  hardly  help  looking  at  her.  She  holds  herself 
so  much  better,  and  her  dresses  are  so  pretty  and  well  made. 
1  never  knew  before  that  her  figure  was  so  nice.'' 

"  Yes,  indeed;  she  is  wonderfully  improved,"  returned 
Grace. 

But  she  said  the  words  mechanically.  Her  mother's  speech 
had  touched  a  sore  place  in  her  memory.  She  knew  who  had 
transformed  Mattie's  dowdiness  into  comeliness  and  neatness. 
She  might  be  an  ordinary  little  woman  in  the  world's  opinion, 
but  in  the  eyes  of  her  family  she  was  quite  another  Mattie. 
Those  tasteful  dresses  had  been  made  by  those  Challoners,  of 
whom  Mattie  spoke  so  much  and  Archie  so  little. 

Mrs.  Drummond,  who  had  not  noticed  her  daughter's  sud- 
den abstraction,  want  on  in  the  same  satisfied  tone: 

*'  She  is  not  pretty,  of  course — no  one  could  ever  call  Mat" 
tie  that  at  the  best  of  times— but  now  she  has  left  off  making 
a  fright  of  herself,  and  hunching  her  shoulders  with  every 
word,  she  is  quite  passable  looking.  I  am  glad  you  talked 
her  out  of  being  a  bride- maid.  She  would  have  looked  absurd 
among  the  girls.  But  that  green  surah  just  suited  her.  It 
was  good  of  Archie  to  buy  her  such  a  pretty  dress;  and  yours 
that  came  from  Hadleigh  was  even  prettier,  and  wonderfully 
well  made,  considering  they  had  only  a  pattern  gown." 

"Yes;  it  fitted  admirably;"  but  Grace  spoke  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

Archie,  who  knevr  her  tastes,  had  chosen  a  soft,  creamy 
stuff,  which  he  informed  Mattie  must  be  trimmed  with  no 
end  of  lace,  Phillis  had  received  and  executed  the  order  with 
such  skill  and  discernment  that  a  most  ravishing  costume  had 
been  produced.  But  Grace,  who  had  her  own  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  those  "  Challoner  girls,"  had  received  the  gift 
somewhat  coldly,  and  had  even  seemed  displeased  when  her 
father  pinched  her  ear  and  told  her  that  Archie's  gown  had 
transformed  her  into  a  princess  fit  for  a  fairy  tale.  "  And 
there  is  always  a  prince  in  that,  my  dear — eh,  Gracie?"  con- 
tinued the  lucky  father,  who  could  afford  to  laugh  when  one 
of  the  seven  daughters  had  got  a  husband.     But  Grace  would 


300  KOl:    LlKfi    OTHEK    GiRLci. 

have  notliing  to  do  with  the  jest.     She  even  got  up  a  little 
frown,  like  her  mother's  on  similar  occasions. 

"  Arcliie  is  so  generous,  dear  old  fellow!'"  continued  Mrs. 
Drummond,  breaking  out  afresh  after  a  minute's  interval,  as 
she  skillfully  manipulated  the  veil.  "  That  is  what  I  always 
say.  There  never  was  such  a  sou  or  brother.  Do  you  think 
he  is  overworking  himself,  Grace,  or  that  Mattie  really  looks 
after  him  well?  But  he  strikes  me  as  a  little  thin — and — yes 
— perhaps  a  little  grave.'' 

Grace's  lips  closed  with  an  expression  of  pain.  But  her 
mother  was  looking  at  her  and  she  must  answer. 

"  Well,  if  you  ask  me,  mother,"  she  returned,  a  little  husk- 
ily, "  I  do  not  think  Archie  looks  very  well,  or  in  his  usual 
spirits;  but  I  am  sure  Mattie  takes  good  care  of  him,"  she 
continued,  with  careful  veracity. 

"Humph!  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  indorsing  my  opinion," 
replied  Mrs.  Drummond,  thoughtfully.  "  1  hoped  you  would 
say  it  was  my  fancy.  He  has  not  said  anythiug  to  you  that 
makes  you  uneasy?"  with  a  touch  of  her  old  sharpness,  re- 
membering that  Grace,  and  not  she,  was  Archie's  confidante; 
but  Grace  replied  so  quickly  and  decidedly,  "  Oh,  no,  mother; 
we  have  not  exchanged  a  word  together  since  he  and  Mattie 
arrived,"  that  her  maternal  jealousy  was  allayed. 

But  the  next  night,  when  she  was  alone  with  him  for  a  few 
minutes,  she  was  struck  afresh  by  the  gravity  of  his  look  as 
he  sat  by  the  window,  pretending  to  read,  but  for  the  last 
half  hour  he  had  not  turned  his  page. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  my  son!"  she  said,  so  archly 
and  abruptly  that  Archie  started,  and  his  brow  grew  crimson 
at  finding  himself  watched. 

"  Oh,  they  were  nothing  particular,"  he  stammered;  and 
then  he  said  something  about  the  fineness  of  the  evening,  and 
the  possibility  of  his  father  coming  in  in  time  for  a  long  walk. 

But  Mrs.  Drummond  was  not  to  be  put  oil  so  easily.  She 
left  her  seat,  where  she  had  been  sewing,  as  usual,  and  came 
and  stood  beside  him  a  moment.  He  would  have  jumped  up 
and  given  her  his  own  chair,  but  she  pressed  his  shoulder 
gently  as  though  to  forbid  the  movement. 

"  1  like  to  stand,  Archie.  Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  evening;  but 
I  think  you  ought  to  ask  Grace,  and  not  your  father,  to  ac- 
company you.  Grace  was  always  your  companion,  you  know, 
and  you  must  not  drop  old  habits  too  suddenly."  Then 
Archie  saw  that  his  avoidance  of  Grace  had  been  marked. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  ask  her,"  he  returned;  but  he  showed 
none  of  his  old  ala^i^ity  and  spirit  in  claiming  his  favorite. 


KOI    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  BOl 

Mrs.  Drummond  noticed  this,  aud  the  shade  of  anxiety  on 
her  face  grew  deeper. 

"  Archie,  you  are  not  quite  your  old  self  with  Grace,  and  I 
am  sure  she  feels  it.     What  has  come  between  you,  my  dear?" 

"  Why,  nothing,  mother;"  and  here  he  attempted  a  laugh. 
"  Grace  and  I  never  quarrel,  as  you  know." 

"  1  was  not  speaking  of  quarreling,"  she  returned,  in  a 
graver  voice;  "  but  you  do  not  seek  her  out  as  you  used.  Be- 
fore, when  you  arrived,  you  always  disappointed  me  bv  shut- 
ting yourself  up  in  the  school-room,  where  no  one  could  get  at 
you;  and  now  Grace  tells  me  she  has  Mot  had  a  word  with  you 
these  four  days." 

"  Has  Grace  complained  of  me,  then?" 

"  You  know  Grace  never  complains  of  you.  It  was  not  said 
in  any  fault-finding  way.  We  agreed  you  were  not  quite 
yourself,  or  in  your  usual  spirits;  and  I  asked  her  the  reason. 
Tell  me,  my  son,  is  there  anything  troubling  you?"  Archie 
sat  silent.  Mrs.  Drummond  was  so  rarely  demonstrative  to 
her  children  that  even  this  well-beloved  son  had  never  heard 
before  such  chords  of  tenderness  in  his  mother's  voice;  and, 
looking  up,  he  saw  that  her  keen  gray  eyes  were  softened  aud 
moist  with  tears.  "  You  are  not  quite  yourself,  Archie — 
not  quite  happy?"  she  went  on. 

Then  he  took  counsel  with  himself,  and  after  a  moment  he 
answered  her: 

"  No,  mother;  you  are  right.  I  am  not — not  quite  myself, 
nor  quite  happy;  but  1  mean  to  be  boih  presently."  And 
then  he  looked  up  in  her  face  pleadingly,  with  an  expression 
of  entreaty  that  went  to  her  heart,  and  continued:  "  But  my 
own  mother  will  not  pain  me  by  unnecessary  questions  that  I 
can  not;  answer."  And  then  she  knew  that  his  will  was 
that  she  should  be  silent. 

"Very  well,"  she  returned,  with  a  sigh.  "But  you  will 
tell  me  one  thing,  will  you  not,  my  dear?  Is  it — is  it  quite 
hopeless?"  her  mother's  instinct,  like  that  of  the  Eastern 
Caliph,  immediately  suggesting  a  woman  in  the  case. 

"  Quite — quite  hopeless — as  dead  as  this!'*  bringing  down 
his  hand  on  a  large  defunct  moth.  "  Talking  will  not  brings 
to  life,  or  help  a  man  to  carry  a  real  burden." 

Then,  as  she  kissed  him,  she  knew  that  his  pain  had  bt^en 
very  great,  but  that  he  meant  to  bear  it  with  all  the  strength 
he  could  bring. 

Grace  went  up  to  prepare  for  her  walk  that  evening  with  no 
very  pleasurable  anticipations.^  Her  mother  had  given  her 


302  NOT  LIKE  ot:ier  girls. 

Archie's  message  in  due  form,  as  she  sat  somewhat  sadly  hy 
the  school-room  window,  mending  a  frock  Dottie  iiad  just  torn. 

*'  Archie  wants  you  to  go  out  with  him,  Grace/'  Mrs. 
Drummond  said  as  she  came  in,  in  her  usual  active,  bustling 
way.  "  The  grass  never  grew  under  her  feet,"  as  she  was 
often  pleased  to  observe.  "  Loitering  and  laggiug  make 
young  bones  grow  prematurely  old,"  she  would  say,  coining  a 
new  proverb  for  the  benefit  of  lazy  Susie.  "  Never  measure 
your  footsteps  when  you  are  aboiit  other  people's  business," 
she  would  say  to  Laura,  who  hated  to  be  hunted  up  from  her 
employment  for  any  errand.  "  He  thinks  of  going  over  to 
Blackthorn  Farm,  as  it  is  so  fine;  and  the  walk  will  do  you 
good,"  continued  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  a  keen  look  at  her 
daughter's  pale  face.  "  Give  me  Dottie 's  frock;  that  little 
monkey  is  always  getting  into  mischief."  But  Grace  yielded 
her  task  reluctantly. 

"  Are  you  sure  he  wishes  me  to  go,  mother?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  was  the  brief  answer,  but  she  added  no  more. 

Silence  was  ever  golden  to  this  busy,  hard-working  mother. 
She  was  generally  sparing  of  words.  Grace,  who  saw  that 
her  mother  was  bent  on  her  going,  made  no  further  demur; 
but,  as  she  put  on  her  walking  things,  she  told  herself  that 
Archie  was  only  making  a  virtue  of  necessity.  He  was  so  lit- 
tle eager  for  her  society  that  he  had  not  sought  her  himself,  but 
had  sent  her  a  message.  Ever  since  his  return,  no  light- 
springing  footsteps  had  been  heard  on  the  uncarpeted  stairs 
leading  to  the  school-room.  He  had  forsaken  their  old  haunt 
where  they  had  once  talked  so  happily,  sitting  hand  in  hand 
in  the  old  window-seat. 

Grace  felt  herself  grievously  wounded.  For  months  a  bar- 
rier had  been  between  her  and  Archie.  He  had  written  sel- 
dom and  his  letters,  when  they  came,  told  her  nothing.  In 
manner  he  was  kindness  itself.  That  there  was  no  change  in 
his  affection  was  evident,  but  the  key  to  his  confidence  was 
mislaid.  He  had  withdrawn  himself  into  some  inner  citadel, 
where  he  seemed  all  at  once  inaccessible,  and  her  sisterly  soul 
was  vexed  within  her. 

He  met  her  at  the  door  with  his  usual  smile  of  welcome. 

'  "  That  is  right,  Grace;  you  have  not  kept  me  long  wait- 
ing," he  said,  pleasantly,  as  she  came  toward  him;  and  then, 
as  they  walked  down  Lowder  Street,  he  commenced  talking  at 
once.  He  had  so  much  to  tell  her,  he  said;  and  here  Grace's 
pulses  began  to  throb  expaclaiitly;  but  the  eager  light  died 
out  of  her  face  when  he  went  on  to  retail  a  long  conversation 


SOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  303 

he  had  had  with  his  mother  the  previous  night.  Was  that  all: 
she  thought.     Was  the  longed-for  confidence  to  be  nrithheld? 

Archie  did  not  seem  to  notice  her  silence:  he  rattled  on 
volubly. 

"  I  think  we  were  hard  on  the  mother,  Grace,  you  and  1/' 
he  said.  "  After  all,  1  believe  she  was  right  in  not  giving  us 
our  own  way  in  the  spring.^' 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  replied  Gracie,  coldly.  Archie 
winced  at  her  tone,  but  recovered  himself  and  went  on  gayly: 

"  It  does  one  good  sometimes  to  have  one's  wishes  crossed; 
and,  after  all,  it  was  only  fair  that  poor  Mattie,  being  the  eld- 
est, should  have  her  turn.  She  does  her  best,  poor  little  soul: 
and,  though  I  find  her  terribly  trying  sometimes,  I  can  hold 
out  pretty  patiently  until  Christmas;  and  then  mother  herself 
suggested  that  you  should  take  her  place  at  the  vicarage." 

"  1!  Oh,  no,  Archie!"  And  here  the  color  flushed  over 
Grace's  face,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears-  The  news  was  so 
unexpected— so  overwhelming.  Another  time  the  sweetness 
of  it  would  have  filled  her  with  rapture.  But  nowl  "  Oh, 
no,  no!"  she  cried,  in  so  vehement  a  tone  that  her  brother 
turned  in  surprise,  and  something  of  her  meaning  came  home 
to  him. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  deprecatingly.  "  I  have  not 
finished  yet  what  1  wanted  to  say.  Mother  said  Mattie  was 
greatly  improved  by  her  visit,  and  that  she  was  infinitely 
obliged  to  me  for  yielding  to  her  wish.  She  told  me  plainly 
that  it  was  impossible  to  have  spared  you  before — that  you 
were  her  right  hand  with  the  girls,  and  that  even  now  your  loss 
would  be  great." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  leave  mother,"  returned  Grace,  in  a 
choked  voice. 

"  Not  if  I  want  you  and  ask  you  to  come?"  he  replied,  with 
reproachful  tenderness.  "  Why,  Grace,  what  has  become  of 
our  old  compact?" 

"  You  do  not  need  me  now,"  she  faltered,  hardly  able  to 
speak  without  weeping. 

*'  We  will  talk  of  that  by  and  by,"  was  the  somewhat  impa- 
tient answer.  "  Just  at  this  minute  1  want  to  tell  you  all  the 
mother  said  on  the  subject.  Facts  before  feelings,  please," 
with  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  but  he  pointed  it  with  a  smile. 
"  You  see,  Grace,  Isabel's  marriage  makes  a  difference. 
There  is  one  girl  ofl:  my  father's  hands.  And  then  the  boys 
are  doing  so  well.  Mother  thinks  that  in  another  three  months 
Clara  may  leave  the  school-room:  she  will  be  seventeen  then^ 


304  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

and,  as  Ellis  has  promised  her  a  course  of  music-lessons,  to 
develop  her  one  talent,  you  may  consider  her  off  your  hands." 

"  Clara  will  never  do  me  credit,"  returned  his  sister, 
mournfully;  "  she  works  steadily  and  takes  pains,  but  she  was 
never  as  clever  as  Isabel." 

**  No;  she  is  no  shining  light,  as  mother  owns;  but  she  will 
play  beautifully,  if  she  be  properly  trained.  Well,  as  to  the 
other  girls,  it  appears  that  my  father  has  decided  to  accept  my 
offer  of  sending  Susie  to  a  first-class  boarding-school;  and,  as  he 
has  determined  to  do  the  same  for  Laura,  there  is  only  Dottie 
for  Mattie  to  manage  or  mismanage.  So  you  see,  Gracie,  your 
school-room  drudgery  is  over.  Mother  herself,  by  her  own 
will,  has  opened  the  prison  doors." 

He  spoke  in  a  light,  jesting  tone,  but  Grace  answered,  al- 
most passionately: 

"  1  tell  you  no,  Archie!  1  no  longer  wish  it  so;  it  is  too 
late:  things  are  now  quite  different." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  returned,  with  along,  steady 
look  that  seemed  to  draw  out  her  words  in  spite  of  her  resolve 
not  to  speak  them. 

"  I  mean  that  things  are  changed — that  you  no  longer  need 
me,  or  wish  me  to  live  with  you." 

"  I  need  you  more,"  he  returned,  calmly;  "  perhaps  I  have 
never  needed  you  so  much.  As  for  living  with  me,  is  it  your 
desire  to  condemn  me  to  an  existence  of  perfect  loneliness?  for 
after  Christmas  Mattie  leaves  me.  You  are  mysterious,  Grace; 
you  are  not  your  old  self." 

"  Oh,  it  is  you  that  are  not  yourself!"  she  retorted,  in  a 
tone  of  grief.  "  Why  have  you  avoided  me?  why  do  you 
withhold  your  confidence?  why  do  your  letters  tell  me  noth- 
ing? and  then  you  come  and  are  still  silent." 

"  What  is  it  that  you  would  have  me  tell  you?"  he  asked; 
but  this  time  he  did  not  look  her  in  the  face. 

"  I  would  know  this  thing  that  has  come  between  us  and 
robbed  me  of  your  confidence.  You  are  ill  at  ease;  you  are 
unhappy,  Archie.  You  have  never  kept  a  trouble  from  me 
before:  it  was  always  1  who  shared  your  hopes  and  fears." 

"  You  may  still  share  them.     I  am  not  changed,  as  you 
imagine,  Grace.     All  that  I  can  tell  you  1  will,  even  if  you 
demnnd  it  in  that  '  money-or-your-life  '  style,  as  you  are  doing 
now,"  trying  to  turn  it  off  with  a  jest. 
Oh,  Archie!" 
Well,  what  of  Archie,  now?"    ~ 

"  That  you  should  laugh  away  my  words!  yoa  have  never 
done  that  before." 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER     GIRLS.  305 


r.< 


Very  well,  1  will  be  serious;  nay,  more,  I  will  be  solemn. 
G-race,  I  forbid  you  ever  to  mention  this  again,  on  pain  of  my 
bitter  displeasure!" 

Then,  as  she  looked  at  him,  too  much  startled  to  answer, 
he  went  on: 

"  A  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  thoughts,  if  he  choose  to 
keep  them  to  himself  and  his  Maker.  There  are  some  things 
with  which  even  you  may  not  meddle,  Grace.  What  if  my 
life  holds  a  grief  which  I  would  bury  from  all  eyes  but  my 
own,  would  you  tear  up  the  clods  with  unhallowed  fingers? 
To  no  living  person  but  my  Saviour  "—and  here  Archie  looked 
up  with  reverent  eyes—"  will  I  speak  of  this  thing."  Then 
she  clung  to  his  arm,  and  tears  flowed  over  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Archie,  forgive  me!  forgive  me!  I  never  meant  to 
hurt  you  like  this;  I  will  not  say  another  word!" 

"You  have  not  hurt  me,"  he  returned,  striving  after  his 
old  manner,  "  except  in  refusing  to  live  with  me.  1  am  lonely 
enough,  God  knows!  and  a  sister  who  understands  me,  and 
with  whom  I  could  have  sympathy,  would  be  a  great  boon." 

*'  Then  1  will  come,"  she  replied,  drying  her  eyes.  "  If 
you  want  me,  1  will  come,  Archie." 

"  I  do  want  you;  and  1  have  never  told  anything  but  the 
truth.  But  you  must  come  and  be  happy,  my  dear.  I  want 
you,  yourself,  and  not  a  grave,  reticent  creature  who  has  gone 
about  the  house  the  last  few  days,  looking  at  me  askance,  as 
though  I  had  committed  some  deadly  sin." 

Then  the  dimple  showed  itself  in  Grace's  cheek. 

"  Have  I  really  been  so  naughty,  Archie?" 

"  Yes,  you  have  been  a  very  shadowy  sort  of  Grace;  but  I 
give  you  full  absolution,  only  don't  go  and  do  it  any  more." 
And  as  she  looked  at  him,  with  her  ej^es  full  of  sorrowful 
yoarnitig,  he  went  on,  hastily:  "Oh,  I  am  all  right,  and  least 
said  is  soonest  mended.  1  am  like  the  dng  in  ^sop's  fable, 
who  mistook  the  shadow  for  the  substance.  A  poor  sort  of 
dog,  that  fellow.  Well,  is  your  poor  little  mind  at  rest, 
Grace?"  And  the  tone  in  which  she  said  "  Yes  "  seemed  to 
satisfy  him,  for  he  turned  their  talk  into  another  channel. 

When  Mrs.  Drummond  say  her  daughter's  face  that  even- 
ing, she  knew  the  cloud  had  passed  between  the  brother  and 
sister. 

Grace  followed  her  to  her  room  that  night— a  thing  she  had 
not  done  for  months. 

"  Mother,  1  must  thank  you  for  being  so  goad  to  us,"  she 
began,  impulsively,  as  soon  as  she  had  crossed  the  threshold. 

"  How  have  I  been  good  to   you,  Grace?"  observed  her 


306  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

mother,  calmsy,  as  she  imfasfceued  her  brooch.  "  Of  coui-se,  I 
have  always  tried  to  be  good  to  my  children,  although  they 
do  not  seem  to  think  so. " 

"  Ah,  but  this  is  very  special  goodness,  and  I  am  more 
<,'ratef  111  than  I  can  say.  Are  you  sure  you  will  be  able  to 
spare  me,  mother?'^ 

"  After  Christmas?  oh,  yes:  things  will  be  possible  then. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  I  had  to  endure  some  very  bitter  words 
from  you  on  this  very  subject.  I  hope  you  will  do  justice  to 
my  judgment  at  thatiime. " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  with  downcast  eyes.  "  1  am  afraid  Archie 
and  I  were  very  willful." 

"  You  were  willful,  Grace,"  for  Mrs.  Drummond  never 
suffered  any  one  to  find  fault  with  her  son  in  her  hearing — 
"  you  who  ought  to  have  known  better.  And  yet  1  do  believe 
that,  but  for  my  determination  to  enforce  the  right  thing,  you 
would  have  left  your  post,  and  all  your  duties,  because  Archie 
wanted  you." 

"  I  was  wrong.     1  see  that  plainly." 

"Yes,  you  were  wrong:  for  a  long  time  you  bore  yourself 
toward  me  as  no  daughter  ought  to  bear  herself  to  her  moth- 
er. You  angered  me  sorely,  Grace,  because  I  saw  you  were 
hardening  yourself  against  me,  only  because  I  insisted  that  no 
child  of  mine  should  neglect  her  duty." 

"  Mother,  surely  I  am  humbling  myself  now." 

"  True;  but  how  long  have  I  waited  for  this  confession? 
Night  after  night  I  have  said  to  myself,  '  Surely  Grace  will 
come  and  tell  me  that  she  feels  herself  in  the  wrong!'  But 
no  such  words  catne.  At  last  I  ceased  to  hope  for  them;  and 
now  at  this  eleventh  hour  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  show 
much  joy  at  hearing  them  spoken." 

Then  Grace's  head  drooped,  and  she  was  silent.  She  knew 
she  deserved  all  these  hard  words,  bitter  as  they  were  to  bear; 
but  Mrs.  Drummond  hud  said  her  say. 

"  Well,  well,  better  late  than  never;  and  we  vrill  say  no 
more  about  it.  Next  time  you  will  understand  me  better, 
Grace." 

Then,  as  her  mother  kissed  her,  Grace  knew  that  her  sin 
»vas  condoned.  Nevertheless,  as  she  left  the  room  a  few  min- 
utes later,  her  heart  was  not  quite  so  light  in  her  bosom;  she 
felt  that  her  mother  had  been  just,  but  hardly  generous. 

*'  I  thought  mothers  forgave  more  easily,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, in  a  somewhat  aggrieved  fashion.  She  had  no  idea  that 
her  mother  was  equally  disappointed. 

Mrs.  Drummond  was  a  hard,  but  not  an  unloving  woman; 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  30'J' 

&ud  she  would  have  liked  more  demonstration  from  her 
daughters.  If  Grace,  for  example,  instead  of  all  those  words, 
bad  thrown  herself  into  her  arms  and  owned  herself  in  the 
wrong,  with  a  child-like  pleading  for  forgiveness,  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  would  have  felt  herself  satisfied,  and  would  havepresseii 
her  to  her  bosom  with  a  loving  word  or  two  that  Grace  would 
have  remembered  when  her  mother  was  in  her  grave.  But 
such  outward  forms  of  tenderness  were  not  possible  to  Mrs. 
Drummond's  daughters;  for  in  such  matters  we  must  reap  as 
we  sow;  and  Mrs.  Drummond's  manner  hardly  merited  soft- 
ness. For  there  are  mothers  and  mothers;  and  the  world  must 
produce  its  Drummouds  and  its  Challoners  until  the  end  of 
time. 


CHAFER  XXXVIII. 

ABOUT   NOTHING   PARTICULAE. 

It  Was  as  well  that  Grace  had  had  this  talk  with  her 
brother;  for,  during  the  two  days  that  remained  of  his  brief 
visit,  they  were  not  alone  together  until  the  last  half  hour  be- 
fore his  departure.  The  young  vicar  had  to  return  for  his 
Sunday  duties;  but  Mattie  remained  behind  for  another  week. 
Archie,  indeed,  had  once  sought  her  in  his  old  fashion — run- 
ning up  to  the  school-room  for  a  chat;  but  Susie  had  been 
there  all  the  time.  In  former  days,  Archie  would  have  sent 
her  away  with  blunt  peremptoriness,  but  now  he  seemed  well 
content  to  have  her  there.  He  had  no  secrets  to  discuss,  as 
he  sat  in  his  old  place  in  the  window-seat;  yet  Grace  was  too 
happy  to  see  him  there  to  find  fault  with  his  discourse. 

But  on  the  morning  of  his  departure  she  had  come  down 
early  to  pour  out  his  coffee.  He  had  bidden  his  mother  good- 
bye in  her  room;  but  he  knew  that,  in  spite  of  the  eariiness 
of  the  hour,  Grace  would  be  in  her  place  to  minister  to  his 
wants. 

"  Well,  Grace,"  he  said,  entering  with  his  traveling-plaid 
over  his  arm,  "  so  it  is  to  be  good-bye  until  Christmas?" 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  looking  at  him  with  a  sort  of  wist- 
fulness;  "  but  the  time  will  pass  quickly  now.  It  is  so  nice 
to  think  that  we  shall  begin  our  new  year  together."  And, 
as  her  brother  checked  an  involuntary  sigh,  she  went  on  ea- 
gerly: "If  you  knew  how  happy  ]  am  about  iti  It  will  be 
something  to  wake  every  morning  and  know  you  are  not  a  hun- 
dred miles  off — that  when  I  come  down  to  breakfast  1  shall 
find  you  there — that  I  shall  be  able  to  talk  to  you  as  much  as 


3Ua  not    LIKE   OiflEK    GiRLg. 

I  like;  a,ud  as  for  work,  it  will  be  play  to  me  to  work  for  you, 
Archie." 

"  Of  coarse  I  know  that,"  rather  raischiev^ously. 

"  I  would  work  for  you  like  a  servant;  would  I  not,  dear? 
I  mean  to  be  ever  so  good  to  you.  Your  friends  shall  be  my 
friends;  your  likes  and  dislikes  shall  be  mine  too." 

"  Why,  Gracie,"  he  said,  humoring  her,  "  this  is  more 
than  a  wife  would  do  for  me!" 

"  Ah!  but  it  is  not  too  much  to  ask  from  a  sister,"  she  re- 
turned, earnestly.  "  When  you  bring  home  your  wife,  Archie, 
I  mean  to  be  good  to  her,  too.  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  then, 
and  come  back  here;  but  if  you  are  happy  I  shall  not  be  mis- 
erable."     But  he  interrupted  her  a  little  impatiently. 

"  What  put  such  nonsense  into  your  head?  1  shall  never 
marry.  We  shall  be  a  pattern  of  old-bachelor  brother  and 
maiden  sister."  And  then  he  pushed  away  his  plate  and  went 
to  the  window.  "Is  it  not  Mrs.  Carlyle  who  quotes  that 
quaint  old  story  about  some  one  who  always  thanked  God 
'  for  the  blessings  that  passed  over  his  or  her  head?'  Is  not 
that  a  curious  idea,  when  one  comes  to  think  it  out?  Fancy 
thanking  Heaven  really  and  seriously  for  all  our  disappointed 
hopes  and  plans — for  '  the  blessings  that  go  over  our  heads!' 
It  would  be  a  new  clause  in  our  petitions — eh,  Gracie?" 

*'  Why,  yes,"  she  replied,  as  she  came  and  stood  near  him. 
"  I  am  afraid  I  could  never  say  that  from  my  heart." 

"  It  is  not  easy/' he  returned,  quietly;  "  but  I  do  not  know 
that  we  ought  to  give  np  trying,  for  all  that,"  And  then  his 
manner  changed,  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her  in  his  old 
fashion.  "  Eecollect,  I  want  you  very  much,  Grace:  your 
coming  will  make  me  far  happier.  Mattie  only  touches  the 
outside  of  things;  I  want  some  one  near  me  who  can  go  deeper 
than  that— who  will  help  me  with  real  work,  and  put  np  with 
my  bad  humors;  for  1  am  a  man  who  is  very  liable  to  discnur- 
agemynt. "     And  when  he  had  said  this  he  bade  her  good  bye. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  Archie  to  find  himself  hard  at  work 
again.  The  few  days  of  idleness  had  been  irksome  to  him. 
Now  he  could  throw  himself  without  stint  or  limit  into  his  pas- 
toral labors,  walking  miles  of  country  road  until  he  was  weary, 
and  planning  new  outlets  for  the  feverish  activity  that  seemed 
to  stimulate  him  to  fresh  efforts. 

People  bogan  to  talk  of  the  young  vicar.  His  sermons  were 
changed,  somehow.  There  was  more  in  them — "  less  of  the 
husk  and  more  of  the  kernel,"  as  Miss  Middleton  once  re- 
marked rather  pithily. 

They  were  wonderfully  brief  discourses;  but,  whereas  thej 


HOI    LIKE    OTHER    GIULS.  309 

had  once  been  elegant  and  somewhat  scholarly  productions, 
they  were  now  earnest  and  even  pungent.  If  the  sentences 
were  less  carefully  compiled,  more  rough-hewn  and  deficient 
in  polish,  there  was  matter  in  them  that  roused  people  and 
made  them  think. 

"  I  never  could  remember  Mr.  Drummond's  sermons  be- 
fore," Dulce  once  observed,  "  but  now  I  can  recollect  whole 
sentences  quite  nicely." 

Phillis,  to  whom  she  spoke,  assented  by  a  nod.  If  she  had 
chosen,  she  could  have  admitted  the  fact  that  she  could  re- 
member not  sentences,  but  the  entire  sermon  itself.  In  secret 
she  marveled  also  at  the  ciiange. 

"  He  is  more  earnest,"  she  would  say  to  herself.  "  He 
preaches  now,  not  from  the  outside,  but  from  the  inside  of 
things — from  his  own  experience,  not  from  other  people's. 
That  makes  the  difference. '^ 

And  to  Nan,  who  was  her  other  conscience,  she  said  one  day, 
when  they  were  discussing  this  subject: 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  sermons  lately. 
I  wish  I  could  publish  the  result  of  my  cogitation.  I  feel  in- 
clined to  write  a  pamphlet  and  entitle  it  '  Hints  to  the 
Clergy;'  I  think  it  would  take  vastly.'' 

It  \eas  Sunday  afternoon,  and  tiiey  were  sitting  together  on 
their  favorite  bowlder.  Phillis  had  christened  it  her  "  think- 
ing-stone. " 

"  I  never  think  to  more  purpose  than  when  I  am  sitting 
here,"  she  would  say. 

Nan,  who  was  looking  out  to  sea  rather  dreamily,  intent  on 
her  usual  vision,  Dick,  roused  herself  at  this,  and  began  to 
smile  in  a  lofty  way. 

"  You  think  yourself  very  clever,  Phillis,  and  so  do  I;  but 
sermons  are  hardly  in  your  province,  my  dear." 

Phillis  shook  her  head  gravely.  She  dissented  from  this, 
view  of  the  case. 

"  Common  sense  is  in  every  one's  province,"  she  persisted. 
"  I  am  a  practical  woman,  and  some  of  my  hints  would  be  val- 
uable. Sermons  are  failures.  Nan.  They  go  over  people's 
heads  like  a  flight  of  badly  shot  arrows.  Does  not  Goulburn 
say  that?  Now  and  then  one  touches  the  mark.  When  they 
are  all  let  fly  thither  and  anyhow,  the  preacher  shuts  up  his 
book  and  his  hearers  cease  to  yawn." 

*'  Oh,  Phillis,  how  absurd  you  arel  Suppose  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  were  to  hear  you!" 

"  I  should  have  no  objection.  But,  Nan,  seriously,  do  yon 
not  notice  how  formal  and  cut-aud-dried  most  sermons  are? 


310  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLg. 

They  come  round  regularlyj  like  Sunday.  People  have  to 
bear  being  preached  at,  and  so  the  unfoitunate  parso?i  must 
hammer  it  out  of  his  head  somehow'.  He  picks  out  his  text, 
writes  out  his  composition,  drags  in  his  learning  by  the  ear, 
and  delivers  it  in  his  best  fashion;  and  people  listen  to  it  po- 
litely, and  the  best-behaved  do  not  yawn.'' 

'*  Phillis,  you  are  positively  irreverent!     I  am  shocked  at 

you!" 

'"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  very  reverent.  Well,  in  my  '  Hints 
to  the  Clergy  '  1  would  say,  first,  '  Never  preach  what  you  do 
not  feel  yourself,  or  the  current  of  electricity  or  sympathy,  or 
whatever  it  is  that  communicates  between  preacher  and  peo- 
ple, will  be  checked  or  impeded.  Do  not  preach  out  of  the 
Book:  we  can  read  that  for  ourselves.  Preach  out  of  your 
own  head  and  your  own  experience,  just  as  much  as  you  can.' 
Bless  you,"  continued  Phillis,  in  a  wise,  half-sad  tone,  "  half 
the  pulpits  would  be  empty:  we  should  get  sometimes  no  ser- 
mon at  all!" 

This  was  too  much  for  Nan's  simplicity. 

"  But  people  would  be  so  disappointed,"  she  observed, 
plaintively.     "  All  the  middle-aged  people  like  sermons." 

"  It  would  not  hurt  them  to  be  disappointed  sometimes. 
They  would  appreciate  the  real  thing  all  the  more  when  it 
came.  It  is  as  well  to  go  without  food  altogether  as  to  be  fed 
on  husks.  After  all,  people  forget  that  they  come  to  church 
to  say  their  prayers  all  together,  and  sing  glorias." 

"  That  is  very  nicely  said,  dear,"  was  Nan's  admiring  com- 
ment on  this. 

But  Phillis  waved  aside  the  praise.  She  was  quite  in 
earnest. 

"  But  if  1  were  speaking  to  one  of  these  real  and  not  make- 
believe  preachers,  I  would  say  to  him,  '  Never  be  discouraged. 
Say  what  you  have  got  to  say:  if  you  really  feel  it  and  mean 
it,  some  one  will  feel  it  too.  You  can't  see  into  people's 
hearts:  and  a  good  thing,  too,  my  friend.  But  '  the  arrows 
at  the  venture  '  may  tell;  some  one  may  be  '  hit  between  the 
joints  of  the  armor.'  There,  come  along;  you  shall  have 
more  of  my  hints  another  time.  1  have  said  my  say  for  (he 
present."  And  Phillis  rose  from  the  bowlder,  with  her  bright 
eyes  kindled  by  some  moving  thought,  and  went  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  watched  a  sea-gull  dipping  toward  the 
shore  in  the  midst  of  the  windy  lights;  while  Nan,  marveling 
at  her  sister's  unusual  earnestness,  followed  more  closely. 

The  Challoners  were  holding  un  their  heads  in  the  place  now. 
There  was  uo  denying  that.     By  the  people  at  the  vicarage 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  31i 

and  the  White  House  they  were  owneQ  and  regarded  as  equals, 
Mrs.  Cheyiie  made  no  secret  of  her  afEecLion  for  Philiis,  aud 
she  was  full  of  kiuduess  also  to  Is'an  aud  Dulce.  It  was  their 
own  fault  if  they  declined  her  frequent  invitations.  But  there 
was  one  person  who  refused  to  hold  out  the  hand  of  amity  to 
the  eccentric  new-comers. 

Colonel  Middletou  still  shook  his  white  head,  and  delivered 
his  protest  into  his  daughter's  ear.  Elizabeth  declared,  laugh- 
ingly, "  that  the  Challoner  girls  were  to  her  father  what  a 
red  rag  is  to  a  bull."  He  never  met  one  of  them  without 
comiug  home  aud  relieving:  his  mind,  as  he  called  it.  "  My 
father  is  dying  to  know  them,''  she  would  say  to  Mr.  Drum- 
mond.  "  He  has  fallen  in  love  with  them  all— mother  and 
daughters  too;  but  he  is  denying  himself  an  introduction  for 
a  certain  reason."  But,  though  Archie  looked  curious  and 
questioned  her  very  closely,  she  chose  to  be  provoking  and  say 
no  more.  It  was  Colonel  Middleton  who  at  last  enlightened 
the  young  man. 

They  were  walking  from  the  town  together.  The  colonel 
was  carrying  his  slick  musket-wise  over  his  shoulder,  and  had 
the  vicar  by  the  arm,  when  Philiis  and  Dulce  came  out  of  the 
gate-way  of  the  White  House.  As  the  girls  passed  Archie 
they  smiled  at  him  aud  nodded,  and  Philiis,  in  a  pretty  way  she 
had,  waved  her  hand;  and  then  they  went  on  rapidly  toward 
the  Friary.  As  they  did  so,  Colonel  Middleton  groaned, 
and  touched  his  companion's  arm  impressively. 

"There,  now,  Drummond,  did  you  ever  see  girls  with  a 
better  carriage?  heads  up—light,  springy  step?  Why,  it  is  a 
pleasure  even  to  an  old  fellow  like  myself  to  watch  them. 
Fancy  that  taller  one  on  horseback  in  the  Eow!  Why,  she 
would  cut  out  half  the  girls.  And  think  that  one  dare  not 
notice  them !"  And  he  struck  his  stick  into  the  ground  almost 
angrily. 

Archie  smiled;  he  could  not  help  it.  The  colonel  was  so 
whimsical  in  his  wrath. 

"  They  have  plenty  of  notice  from  the  folk  at  the  White 
House,"  he  returned,  quietly. 

"  Ah,  Cheyne  was  always  a  bit  of  a  radical,  and  madame  is 
no  better.  They  can  do  as  they  like,  without  being  afraid  of 
consequences.  But  that  is  not  my  case."  And,  as  Archie 
looked  at  him  ralher  mystified,  he  went  on:  "  Bless  me.  you 
do  not  suppose  I  am  afraid  of  knowiug  them  for  my  own  sake? 
Elizabeih  tells  me  ihat  she  is  intimate  with  them.  But  that 
is  not  my  business,  so  long  as  she  does  not  have  them  at 
Brooklyn.     '  We  must  draw  the  line  there,  Elizabeth,'  I  said. 


3i2  NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS. 

'  If  you  choose  to  vist  your  dress-makerp,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
])reventyou;  you  are  old  enough  to  select  your  own  friends, 
80  you  may  be  as  eccentric  as  you  like.  But  your  brother  is 
coming  home.  Young  men  are  young  men;  and  I  do  not 
choose  to  expose  Hammond  to  such  temptations.'  " 

"Oh,  Hammond!  That  is  your  son,  I  suppose?"  asked 
Archie,  who  was  much  amused  at  the  colonel's  earnestness. 

"  Yes;  my  boy  Hammond!  the  finest  fellow  in  the  regi- 
ment, though  1  say  it,  who  should  not.  Do  you  think  that  I, 
his  father,  would  exj)ose  him  to  such  danger  as  to  throw  him 
into  the  society  of  a  set  of  fascinating  young  women  who  have 
chosen  to  emancipate  themselves  from  all  conventionality, 
and  who  call  themselves — stuff  and  rubbish! — dress-makers?'* 

"  Not  call  themselves  so:  they  are  excellent  dress-makers," 
was  Archie's  somewhat  malicious  reply. 

"  All  the  more  reason  that  my  son  should  not  know  them!'* 
thundered  the  old  man.  "  What,  sir!  an  officer  in  one  of  her 
majesty's  regiments — the  son  and  grandson  of  officers — is  such 
;i,  one  to  be  mixed  up  with  a  family  that  has  lost  caste — to  flirt 
with  or  make  love  to  girls  who  are  not  above  making  gowns 
for  my  butcher's  wife?  Before  Hammond  does  such  a  thing 
iks  that — *'  And  here  the  colonel  paused  from  excess  of 
emotion. 

"  You  are  perfectly  right  to  defend  your  son  from  such 
ilanger,"  returned  the  young  clergyman,  with  covert  sarcasm. 
"  In  your  case  I  should  probably  feel  the  same.  But,  in  my 
position,  being  intimate  with  those  ladies  of  whom  you  speak, 
and  having  had  good  opportunity  to  form  myoj)inionof  them, 
f  can  not  help  saying,  in  their  defense,  that  even  your  son,  ex- 
oellent  officer  as  he  is — and,  I  am  sure,  a  most  worthy  young 
man — would  scarcely  be  dishonored  by  an  alliance  with  the 
finest  young  gentlewomen  I  ever  met!"  And,  as  he  said  this, 
■vith  all  due  gravity,  Archie  released  his  arm,  and,  with  a 
farewell  nod,  went  off,  leaving  the  colonel,  open-mouthed  and 
i^asping  with  astonishment,  at  his  own  gate. 

Elizabeth  met  him  on  the  threshold. 

"  Oh,  father,  why  did  you  not  bring  Mr.  Drummond  in?" 
4ie  said,  reproachfully;  "  it  is  so  long  since  he  has  paid  us  a 
visit." 

"Poor  Drummond!"  replied  the  colonel,  with  a  mournful 
^hake  of  his  head:  "  it  is  just  as  I  thought.  He  has  almost 
owned  it,  in  fact.  He  is  seriously  smitten  with  one  of  those 
Ohalloner  girls,  and  before  long  there  will  be  a  wedding  in  the 
place." 

"Now,  father,  this  is  just  one  of  your  whimsies,"  replied 


mt    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  3 IS 

Elizabeth,  placidly.  "  Mr.  Drummond  is  going  to  have  his 
favorite  sister,  Grace,  to  live  with  him  and  keep  his  house. 
He  told  me  so  himself;  and  that  does  not  look  as  though  he 
expected  to  bring  liome  a  wife.  So  you  may  just  put  this  idea 
out  of  your  head."  But,  though  Elizabeth  was  well  aware  of 
the  truth  of  her  words,  that  no  new  mistress  was  to  come  to 
the  vicarage,  still  her  fine  sympathy  and  unerring  woman's 
divination  had  read  the  meaning  of  the  young  vicar's  clouded 
brow,  and  she  knew  that  he,  too,  had  to  try  and  be  grateful 
for  "  the  blessings  that  went  over  his  head." 

Archie's  grand  and  somewhat  heroic  speech  failed  in  its 
effect,  as  far  as  the  colonel  was  concerned.  Elizabeth  was 
right  in  saying  her  father  was  longing  to  know  the  Challoners. 
The  old  man's  fancy  had  been  mightily  taken  by  the  girls; 
but  for  Hammond,  for  his  boy's  sake,  he  was  capable  of  any 
amount  of  self-denial.  Once  he  was  sorely  tempted  to  give 
in.  When  turning  the  corner  of  the  Braidwood  Eoad,  not 
far  from  his  own  house,  he  came  suddenly  upon  his  daughter, 
who  was  standing  on  the  side  path,  talking  to  Dulce. 

Dulce,  who  always  seemed  a  sort  of  retlection  and  shadow  of 
her  sisters,  and  who  withdrew  somewhat  in  the  background, 
obscured  a  little  by  Nan's  beauty  and  Phillis's  spiightliness, 
was  nevertheless  in  her  way  a  most  bewitching  little  maiden. 

"  There  comes  my  father!"  observed  Elizabeth,  tranquilly, 
never  doubting  that  he  would  join  them;  and  Dulce  looked  up 
a  little  shy  and  fluttered  from  under  her  broad-brinimed  hat; 
for  she  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  colonel,  with  his  white  mus- 
tache and  kindly  inquisitive  eyes.  He  was  a  sort  of  hero  in 
her  fancy,  and  Dulce  loved  heroes — especially  when  they  wore 
a  medal. 

Colonel  Middleton  saw  the  little  girl  dimpling  and  blushing 
with  pleasure,  and  his  old  heart  thumped  a  little  with  excite- 
ment and  the  conflict  of  feeling;  the  innocent  child-look  ap- 
pealed to  his  fatherly  sympathies.  There  was  a  moment's 
wavering,  then  he  lifted  his  white  hat,  with  a  muttered 
"  Good-morning,"  and  the  next  minute  he  was  walking  on 
with  squared  shoulders  and  tremendous  energy.  Poor  little 
Dulce's  lip  quivered  with  disappointment:  she  thought  it 
hard,  when  other  people  were  so  kind  to  them.  Elizabeth 
said  nothing,  but  she  bade  the  child  good-bye  with  greater 
tenderness  tlian  usual,  and  sent  all  sorts  of  messages  to  her 
mother  and  Nan. 

The  colonel,  meanwhile,  had  retreated  into  the  house,  and 
was  openitig  his  papers  v/ith  more  than  his  usual  fuss. 

*'  It  is  for  Hammond,"  he  murmured  to  himself.     "  "When 


n 


14  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS. 


one  has  boys  one  must  do  one's  duty  by  them;  but  it  was  con- 
foundedly hard,  by  Jove!"  And  all  the  remainder  of  the  day 
a  pair  of  appealing  eyes  seemed  to  reproach  him  with  unkind- 
ness.  But  Elizabeth  never  said  a  word^  it  was  not  her  place 
to  find  fault  with  her  father. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX. 

"  HOW   DO   YOU   DO,    AUKT  CATHERINE?" 

One  drizzling  November  morning,  Mattie  was  standing  at 
the  hall  door,  looking  out  a  little  blankly  through  the  open 
gate-way  at  the  prospect  before  her — at  the  rotting  leaves  that 
lay  heaped  up  in  the  road,  and  at  the  gray,  humid  sky — when 
a  very  big  man  suddenly  blocked  up  the  entrance,  and  startled 
her  dreadfully. 

Mattie  afterward  described  the  occurrence  very  graphically 
to  hei-  brother: 

"  He  was  the  biggest  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  Archie. 
He  looked  as  strong  as  a  navvy,  and  his  shoulders  reminded 
me  of  one  of  those  men  one  sees  in  brewers'  drays.  And  his 
face  was  so  red,  and  his  hair,  too — that  dreadfully  red  color, 
you  know,  that  no  one  admires;  and  his  hands,  and  even  his 
voice,  were  big." 

"  What  a  fascinating  description!"  laughed  Archie.  "Upon 
my  word,  Mattie,  you  are  rather  tremendous  in  your  language. 
Well,  and  what  did  the  navvy  say  to  you?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  not  a  navvy,  really!  Of  course  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman. He  could  not  help  his  big  voice,  and  what  he  said 
was  nice;  but  I  assure  you,  Archie,  he  nearly  took  my  breath 
away;"  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  to  the  end  of  her  story. 

But  it  was  enough  to  surprise  any  one  whose  nerves  were  not 
of  the  strongest,  when  one  lives  in  a  lonely  country  road,  and 
the  master  of  the  house  is  out,  to  see  a  gigantic  specimen  of 
manhood,  not  very  carefully  dressed,  and  with  hair  like  a  red 
glory,  come  suddenly  striding  through  one's  open  gate,  with- 
out "  by  your  leave,"  or  waiting  for  any  possible  permission. 

Mattie  dropped  her  umbrella — for  she  was  dressed  in  her 
water-proof  and  her  oldest  hat,  ready  for  her  district  work; 
and  the  stranger  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to  her  promptly, 
and  then  he  removed  his  hat  politely. 

"  How  do  you  do,  cousin?"  he  said,  and  a  broad,  genial 
smile  revealed  a  set  of  white  teeth. 

Mattie  retreated  a  step  in  genuine  affright. 

"  For  you  know,  Archie,"  she  explained  afterward^  in  her 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  315 

simple  way,  "  we  have  no  cousins  worth  mentioning,  except 
Sopliy  Trinder,  who  is  not  our  cousin  at  all,  but  mother's;  and 
so,  you  see,  it  sounded  so  very  odd.'* 

"  Very  odd  indeed,''  muttered  Archie. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr  Drummond — that  is  my  brother — is 
out,  and  1  am  going  out  too,"  faltered  Mattie,  who  was  not  a 
specially  heroic  little  person,  and  who  decidedly  had  not  got 
her  wits  about  her  just  then. 

"  I  do  not  want  Mr.  Drummond,  whoever  he  may  be.  I 
never  heard  of  him  in  my  life.  I  only  want  my  aunt  and 
cousins.  Which  of  them  are  you,  eh?  Why,  you  must  be 
Nan,  I  suppose?"  And  the  big  man  looked  down  at  her  with 
a  sort  of  supercilious  good  nature.  The  name  gave  Mattie 
instant  enlightenment. 

*'  Kan!  Oh,  you  must  mean  the  Challoners!"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  a  little  gasp  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  of  course;  1  am  a  Challoner  myself.  Well,  which 
of  them  are  you,  eh?  You  are  a  long  time  telling  me  your 
name."  And  the  new-comer  peered  down  at  her  still  more 
curiously,  as  though  he  were  surprised  to  find  anything  so 
small  and  ordinary-looking. 

Mattie  never  looked  to  advantage  in  her  water-proof.  More 
than  once  her  brother  had  threatened  to  burn  the  old  rag  of 
a  thing. 

"  My  name  is  Mattie  Drummond,"  replied  the  bewildered 
Mattie,  trying  to  speak  with  dignity — she  never  would  call 
herself  Matilda,  she  hated  it  so — "  and  I  live  with  my  brother, 
who  is  the  clergyman  of  the  parish.  This  is  the  vicarage.  If 
you  want  the  Friar}',  it  is  a  little  lower  down  the  road." 

"  Where?"  he  asked,  striding  to  the  gate;  and  then  he 
came  back  again,  taking  the  few  steps  at  a  single  bound — so 
at  least  it  appeared  to  Mattie.  "  Why — why — there  is  no 
house  at  all — only  a  miserable  cottage,  and — " 

"  That  is  the  Fn'ary,"  repeated  Mattie,  decidedly;  "  but  it 
is  not  miserable  at  all:  it  is  very  nice  and  pretty.  The  Chal- 
loners are  very  poor,  you  know;  but  their  house  looks  beautiful 
for  all  that." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  know  all  about  it.  I  have  been  down  to  that 
place,  Oldfield,  where  they  lived,  and  what  I  heard  has  brought 
me  here  like  an  express  train.  1  say.  Miss  Mattie  Drummond, 
if  you  will  excuse  ceremony  in  a  fellow  who  has  never  seen  his 
father's  country  before,  and  who  has  roughed  it  in  the  colo- 
nies, may  I  come  in  a  moment  and  ask  you  a  tew  questions 
about  my  cousins?" 

"  Oh;  by  all  means,"  returned  Mattie,  who  was  very  good- 


316  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

natured  and  «'as  now^  more  at  her  ease.     "  You  will  be  very 
welcome,  Mr.  Cballoner/' 

"  Sir  Henry  Clialloner,  at  your  service/'  responded  that 
singular  individual,  with  a  twinkle  of  his  eye,  as  Mattie  be- 
came confused  all  at  once.  "  You  see,''  he'coutinued,  confi- 
dentially, as  she  led  the  way  rather  awkwardly  to  her  brother's 
study,  hoping  fervently  that  Archie  would  come  in,  "I  have 
been  making  up  my  mind  to  come  to  England  for  years,  but 
somehow  I  have  never  been  able  to  get  away;  but  after  my 
father's  death— he  was  out  in  Australia  with  me — I  was  so 
lonely  and  cut  up  that  I  thought  I  would  take  a  run  over  to 
the  mother-country  and  hunt  up  my  relations.  He  was  not 
much  of  a  father,  perhaps;  but,  as  one  can  not  have  a  choice 
in  such  matters,  I  was  obliged  to  put  up  with  him;"  which 
was  perhaps  the  kindest  speech  Sir  Francis's  son  could  make 
under  the  circumstances. 

Mattie  listened  intelligently,  but  she  was  so  slightly  ac- 
quainted with  the  Challoners'  past  history  that  she  did  not 
know  they  possessed  any  relations.  But  she  had  no  need  to 
ask  any  questions:  the  new-comer  seemed  determined  to  give 
a  full  account  of  himself. 

"  So,  do  you  see.  Miss  Drumtuond,  having  made  my  fortune 
by  a  stroke  of  good  luck,  and  not  knowing  quite  how  to  spend 
it — the  father  and  mother  both  gone — and  having  no  wife  or 
chick  of  my  own,  and  being  uncommon  lonely  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  thought  I  would  just  run  over  and  have  a  look 
at  my  belongings.  I  had  a  sort  of  fancy  for  Aunt  Catherine; 
she  used  to  write  me  such  pretty  letters  when  I  was  a  little 
chap  in  Calcutta,  and  tell  me  about  Nan  and  Phillis  and — 
what  was  the  baby's  name? — Uulce.  I  believe  she  and  the  poor 
old  governor  never  hit  it  oS:  the  old  man  had  been  a  sad  sin- 
ner in  his  day.  But  I  never  forgot  those  letters:  and  when  he 
was  gone,  poor  old  boy!  I  said  to  myself.  Now  I  will  go  and 
see  Aunt  Catherine." 

"  And  you  went  down  to  Oldfield,  Sir  Henry?" 
"  Eh,  what!  meaning  me,  I  suppose?  but  out  there  they 
called  me  Sir  Harry,  or  Harry  mostly,  for  what  was  the  use 
of  a  title  there?  Oh,  yes;  1  went  down  and  found  out  all 
about  them  from  a  chatty  little  woman,  rather  like  yourself, 
and  she  sent  me  on  here." 

*'  Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  glad!"  exclaimed  Mattie,  who  was  now 
thoroughly  herself:  "  they  will  be  so  pleased  to  see  you,  and 
you  will  think  them  all  so  charming.  1  am  sure  I  never  saw 
any  one  the  least  like  tliem.,  except  Grace,  and  she  is  not  half 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  317 

SO  pretty  as  Nan;  and  as  for  Phillis,  I  admire  her  even  more; 
she  lights  up  so  wlieu  she  talks." 

"  Auiii  Catherine  used  to  be  beautiful,"  observed  Sir 
Harry,  gravely;  for  then  and  afterward  he  insisted  on  that 
form  of  address.  He  was  not  English  enough  or  sufficiently 
stili  for  Henry,  he  would  say. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes!  she  is  quite  lovely  now— at  least  Archie 
and  I  think  so;  and  Dulce  is  the  dearest  little  tiling.  1  am 
ever  so  fond  of  them;  if  they  were  my  own  sisters  I  could  not 
love  them  more,"  continued  Mattie,  wilh  a  little  gush;  butt 
indeed,  the  girl's  gentle,  high-bred  ways  had  won  her  hear, 
from  the  first. 

Sir  Harry's  eyes  positively  sparkled  with  delight.  He  had 
pleasant  eyes,  which  redeemed  his  other  features;  for,  it  must 
be  confessed,  he  was  decidedly  plain. 

"  I  mn.-^t  shake  ha;ids  with  you.  Miss  Drumnioud,"  he  said, 
stretching  out  a  huge  hand,  with  a  diamond  ring  on  it  that 
greatly  impressed  Mattie.  "  We  shall  be  good  friends,  I  see 
that."  And,  though  poor  Mattie  winced  with  pain  under  that 
cordial  grasp,  she  hid  it  manfully. 

"  Did  they  tell  you  at  Oldfield  how  poor  they  are?"  she 
said,  when  this  ceremony  had  been  performed,  and  Sir  Harry's 
face  looked  more  like  a  sunset  than  ever,  with  that  benevo- 
lent glow  on  it. 

*'  Oh,  yes,"  he  returned,  indifferently;  "  but  all  that  is 
over  now." 

"You  know  they  have  to  work  for  their  living;  the  girls 
are  dress-makers,"  bringing  out  the  news  rather  cautiously, 
for  fear  he  should  be  shocked;  a  baronet  must  be  sensitive  on 
such  points.     But  Sir  Harry  only  laughed. 

"  Well,  they  are  plucky  giils,"  he  said,  admiringly.  "I 
like  them  for  that."  And  then  he  asked,  a  little  anxiously, 
if  his  aunt  sewed  gowns  too — that  was  how  he  put  it — and 
seemed  mightily  relieved  to  hear  that  she  did  very  little  but 
read  to  the  girls. 

"  I  would  not  like  to  hear  she  was  slaving  herself  at  her 
age,"  he  remarked,  seriously.  "  Work  will  not  hurt  the 
girls:  it  keeps  them  out  of  mischief.  But  now  1  have  come, 
we  must  put  a  slop  to  all  this."  And  then  he  got  up  and 
threw  back  his  shoulders,  as  though  he  were  adjusting  them 
to  some  burden;  and  Maltie,  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  thought 
again  of  the  brewer's  dray. 

"  1  was  afraid  wlien  he  got  oif  his  chair  he  would  touch  the 
ceiling,"  she  said,  afterward.  "  He  quite  stooped  of  his  OWU 
aceord  going  through  the  study  door-way," 


318  NOT    LIKE    OTHEli    GIRLS. 

When  Sir  Henry  had  shaken  himself  into  order,  and  pulled 
an  end  of  his  rough  red  mustache,  he  said,  quite  suddenly: 

*'  As  you  are  a  friend  of  the  family,  Miss  Ijrummond,  I 
think  it  would  be  as  well  if  you  would  go  with  me  to  the 
P^riary  and  introduce  me  in  due  form;  for,  though  you  would 
not  believe  it  in  a  man  of  my  size,  I  am  painfully  shy,  and  (he 
notion  of  all  these  gii'ls,  unless  I  take  them  singly,  is  rather 
overwhelming. '^  And,  though  this  request  took  Mattie  a  lit- 
tle by  surprise,  she  saw  no  reason  for  refusing  to  do  him  this 
kindness.  So  she  assented  willingly,  for  in  her  heart  Mat- 
tie  was  fond  of  a  scene.  It  gave  her  such  a  hold  on  Archie's 
attention  afterward;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  wlien  the  Chal- 
loners  were  on  the  tapis,  he  made  a  splendid  listener. 

Sir  Henry  walked  very  fast,  as  though  he  were  in  a  tre- 
mendous hurry;  but  he  was  nervous,  poor  fellow,  and,  though 
he  did  not  like  to  own  as  much  to  ft  woman,  he  would  almost 
have  liked  to  run  away,  in  spite  of  his  coming  all  these  thou- 
sands of  miles  to  see  his  relations.  He  had  pressed  Mattie  in- 
to the  service  to  cover  his  confusion,  but  the  little  woman  her- 
self hardly  saw  how  she  was  needed,  for,  instead  of  waiting  for 
her  introduction,  or  sending  in  his  name  or  card  by  Dorothy, 
he  just  put  them  both  aside  and  stepped  into  the  first  room 
that  stood  handy,  guided  by  the  sound  of  voices. 

"How  do  you  do.  Aunt  Catherine?"  he  said,  walking 
straight  up  to  the  terrified  lady,  who  had  never  seen  anything 
so  big  in  her  life.  "  I  am  Harry — Harry  Challoner,  you 
know — to  whom  you  used  to  wiite  when  1  was  a  little  slip  of 
a  boy. " 

A  strange  queen  in  a  hive  of  bees  could  not  have  produced 
more  confusion.  Dulce  stopped  her  sewing-machine  so  sud- 
denly that  her  thread  broke;  Phillis,  who  was  reading  aloud, 
let  her  book  fall  with  quite  a  crash;  and  Nan  said,  "Oh, 
dear!"  and  grew  quite  pale  with  surprise  and  disappointment; 
for  a  moment  she  thought  it  was  Dick.  As  for  Mrs.  Challoner, 
who  had  a  right  to  her  nerves  from  years  of  injudicious  spoil- 
ing and  indulgence,  and  would  not  have  been  without  her 
feelings  for  worlds,  she  just  clasped  her  hands  and  mur- 
mui-ed  "  Good  heavens!"  in  the  orthodox  lady-like  way. 

"  Why,  yes.  Aunt  Catherine,  I  am  Harry;  and  I  hope  you 
have  not  forgotten  the  existence  of  the  poor  little  beggar  to 
whom  you  were  so  kind  in  the  old  Calcutta  days."  And  his 
big  voice  softened  involuntarily  in  the  presence  of  this  digni- 
fied aunt. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  no!"  touched  by  his  manner,  and  re- 
membering  the  boyish   scrawls    that    used  to  come  to  her, 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRL?.  319 

signed,  "  Your  affectionate  nephesv,  Harry."  "  And  are  you 
indeed  my  'lephew — are  you  Harry?"  And  then  she  held  out 
her  slim  Ijaud,  whii;h  he  took  awkw'ardiy  enough.  "  Girls, 
you  must  welcome  your  cousin.  This  is  Nan,  Harry,  the  one 
they  always  say  is  like  me;  and  this  is  Phillis,  our  clever  one; 
and  this  is  my  pet,  Dulce. "  And  with  each  one  did  their 
cousin  solemuly  shake  hands,  but  without  a  smile;  indeed, 
his  aspect  became  almost  ludicrous,  until  he  caught  sight  of 
his  homely  little  acquaintance,  Mattie,  who  stood  an  amused 
spectator  of  this  family  tableau,  and  his  red,  embarrassed  face 
brightened  a  little. 

"  Aunt  Catherine  was  such  an  awfully  grand  creature,  you 
know,"  as  he  observed  to  her  afterward,  in  a  confidential 
aside:  "her  manner  makes  a  fellotv  feel  nowhere.  And  as 
for  my  cousins,  a  prettier  lot  of  girls  1  never  saw  anywhere; 
and,  of  coutse,  they  are  as  jolly  and  up  to  larks  as  other  girls; 
but  just  at  first,  you  know,  I  had  a  bull-in-a-chiua-shop  sort 
of  feeling  among  them  all. " 

Mrs.  Challoner,  in  spite  of  her  fine  manners,  was  far  too 
nervous  herself  to  notice  her  nephew's  discomfort.  She  had 
to  mention  a  name  that  was  obnoxious  to  her,  for  of  course 
she  must  ask  after  his  father.  She  got  him  into  a  chair  by 
her  at  length,  where  he  stared  into  his  hat  to  avoid  the  bright 
eyes  that  seemed  to  quiz  him  so  unmercifully. 

"And  how  is  Sir  Francis?"  she  asked,  uttering  the  name 
with  languid  anguish. 

"  My  father!  Oli,  did  you  not  know,  Aunt  Catherine?  He 
died  out  in  Sydney  a  year  ago.  Poor  old  fellow!  he  had  a 
terrible  illness.     There  was  no  pulling  him  through  it." 

Mrs.  Challoner  roused  up  at  this. 

"  Your  father  dead!  Then,  Harry,  you  have  come  to  th« 
title?" 

But  her  nephew  burst  into  a  boisterous  laugh  at  this: 

"  Yes — a  title  and  an  old  ruin.  A  precious  heritage,  is  it  not? 
Not  that  I  care  what  people  call  me.  The  most  important  part 
is  that  another  fellow — Dalton  they  call  him — and  I  made  a 
grand  hit  out  in  Sydney.  When  I  saw  the  money  flowing  in 
I  just  sent  for  the  poor  old  governor  to  join  me;  and  we  did 
not  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  until  the  gout  took  him  off.  And 
then  1  got  sick  of  it  all,  and  thought  I  would  have  a  look  at 
England  and  hunt  up  my  relations." 

Sir  Harry  had  blurted  out  this  long  speech  as  he  still  attent- 
ively regarded  the  lining  of  his  hat;  but,  happening  to  look 
up,  he  caught  Phillis's  eyes,  which  were  contemplating  him. 
The  mischievous  look  of  fun  iu  them  was  not  to  be  resisted. 


320  KOT    LIKE    OTHEit    GIRLg. 

Sir  Harry  first  got  redder,  if  possible;  then  his  own  eyes  be- 
gan to  twinkle,  and  fiiialJy  they  both  laug,hed.  And  after 
that  the  ice  was  broken,  and  they  got  on  famously. 

The  girls  chattered  to  him  like  magpies.  They  made  Mat- 
tie  take  off  her  hat  and  hideous  old  waterproof  and  stay  to 
luncheon.  Nan  smoothed  her  hair,  which  was  sadly  ruffled, 
and  Phillis  settled  her  brooch  and  collar. 

There  was  only  cold  mutton  in  the  larder;  but  what  did  that 
matter?  Dulce  ran  out  into  the  garden  and  picked  dahlias 
for  the  table;  and  Nan  took  her  mother's  keys  and  drew  from 
the  recesses  of  a  dim,  sweet-smelling  press  some  dainty  nap- 
kins and  a  fine  old  cloth  that  might  have  suited  a  princess. 
There  was  a  battle  of  rare  Madeira  that  remained  from  their 
stock  of  wine;  and  Dorothy  had  made  a  batch  of  fresh  dinner- 
rolls.     Dorothy  was  always  full  of  resources  on  an  emergency. 

"  Don't  fash  yourself,  Miss  Nan,"  she  said,  when  her  young 
mistress  came  into  the  kitchen.  "  The  cold  mutton  can't  be 
helped;  but  we  have  got  angels  in  the  larder,  and  1  will  ju3t 
pop  them  into  the  oven. 

Sir  Harry  laughed  when  Dorothy's  speec  h  was  repeated  to 
him.  The  little  paddings  were  declared  b^  Mattie  to  be  de- 
licious; but  Sir  Harry  could  scarcely  eat  for  his  laughing. 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  baked  angels,  Auiii  Catherine!"  he 
exclaimed,  after  another  explosion. 

"My  dear,  it  is  only  a  name,"  she  returned,  mildly.  "  Will 
you  have  another,  Harry?  And,  Nan,  you  must  pass  your 
cousin  the  Madeira." 

They  were  all  seated  round  the  table  in  the  small  parlor. 
It  was  felt  to  be  a  triumph  when  Sir  Harry  contrived  to  seat 
himself  without  grazing  himself  seriously  against  the  chiflionier 
or  knocking  over  a  piece  of  the  blue-and-gold  china. 

"  What  a  cozy  little  cabin  of  a  place!"  he  said,  with  critical 
approval;  "  but  it  is  rather  small  to  hold  you  all — eh.  Aunt 
Catherine?" 

"  Yes;  it  is  small  after  Glen  Cottage,"  she  sighed.  "  We 
had  such  a  pretty  drawing-room  there." 

'*  And  such  a  lovely  garden,"  added  Dulce. 

"  Oh,  this  crib  is  not  fit  for  you!  We  will  alter  all  that," 
he  returned,  complacently.  "  I  am  the  head  of  the  family 
now,  and  I  must  take  my  uncle's  place.  1  am  awfully  ricli. 
Aunt  Catherine;  so  you  have  only  got  to  tell  me  what  you 
and  the  girls  want,  you  know."  And  then  he  rubbed  his 
hands  as  though  he  wei-e  pleased  about  something. 

But  no  one  took  any  notice  of  this  speech,  hardly  knowing 
how  to  treat  it. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  331 

When  luncheon — which  was,  indeed,  the  family  dinner — 
was  over,  the  girls  carried  him  off  to  the  work-room,  and 
showed  him  specimens  of  their  skill. 

"Very  nice;  very  well  done,''  he  observed,  approvingly. 
"  I  am  glad  you  slio^'ed  such  pluck;  for  why  auy  woman 
should  think  it  infra  dig.  to  make  a  gown  for  another  woman 
rjuite  beats  me.  Why,  bless  you,  in  the  colonies  we  fellows 
turned  our  hands  to  anything!  Well,  Aunt  Catherine,  they  are 
plucky  ones,  these  girls  of  yours.  But  we  must  put  a  stop  to 
this  sort  of  thing,  you  and  1.  I  don't  think  my  uncle  would 
have  liked  it.  And  as  lam  in  his  jjlace — "*  And  here  he 
thrust  aside  some  amber  satin  with  his  great  hands,  with  a 
movement  full  of  suggestive  possibilities. 

He  took  them  all  out  to  walk  after  that-  Mrs.  Challoner, 
indeed,  begged  co  be  excused— the  poor  lady  was  already  sadly 
fatigued,  and  longed  for  her  nap — but  he  would,  not  dispense 
with  Mattie's  company. 

"  We  were  acquaintances  first,''  he  said  to  her;  "and  1 
look  upon  you  as  a  sort  of  cousin  too,  Miss  Mattie."  And 
poor  little  Mattie,  who  had  never  met  with  so  much  friendli- 
ness before,  quite  blushed  and  bridled  with  jaleasure. 

Mr.  Drummond,  who  o'as  coming  out  of  his  osvu  gate,  stood 
as  though  transfixed  as  the  procession  came  toward  him.  The 
four  girls  were  walking  all  abreast,  Mattie  in  the  middle;  and 
beside  them  stalked  a  huge  man  in  rough,  rather  outlandish 
attire,  looking  like  a  son  of  the  Anakim,  or  a  red-headed 
Goliath. 

Archie  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  Mattie 
rushed  up  to  him: 

"  We  are  going  for  a  walk.  Oh,  Archie,  I  wish  you  would 
come  too!    It  would  be  such  fun!" 

"  Yes;  do  come!"  cried  unconscious  Kan,  seconding  her 
out  of  pure  good  nature.  "Ml-.  Drummond,  this  is  our 
cousin.  Sir  Henry  Challoner,  who  has  ju  t  come  from  Austra- 
lia, and  we  have  never  seen  him  before."  And  then  the 
young  clercryman  shook  hands  with  him  very  stiffly,  and  spoke 
a  few  conventional  words. 

"  They  have  not  a  man  belonging  to  them,"  he  had  said  to 
himself,  triumphantly,  and  then  that  odious  Dick  had  turned 
up,  and  now  this  extraordinary-looking  being  who  called  him- 
self Sir  Henry  Challoner. 

Archie  took  down  the  "  Pcproge  "  when  he  got  home,  for 
he  could  not  be  induced  to  join  the  merry  party  in  their 
walk.  He  found  the  name  there  all  right — "  Henry  Fortes- 
cue  Challoner,  son  of  Sir  Francis  Challoner,  son  of  Sir  Henrj 


B22  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Challoner,"  and  so  on.  It  was  an  old  baronetcy — one  of  the 
oldest  in  England— but  the  estates  had  dwindled  down  to  a 
half-ruined  residence  and  a  few  fields.  "  Challoner  Place/' 
as  it  was  called,  was  nothing  but  a  heap  of  moldering  walls; 
but  Mattie  had  whispered  to  him  gleefully  that  he  was  "  aw- 
fully rich,  and  the  head  of  the  familj^  and  unmarried;  and 
he  did  not  mean  to  let  his  cousins  make  gowns  any  more  for 
other  people,  though  they  might  do  it  for  themselves." 

Mattie  never  forgot  that  walk.  Never  in  her  life  had  she 
enjoyed  such  fun.  Archie,  with  his  grave  face  and  prim 
ways,  would  have  spoiled  the  hilarity. 

First  Sir  Henry  took  his  cousins  to  the  hotel,  where  they 
heard  him  order  his  apartments  and  dinner;  he  evidently  con- 
sidered he  had  not  dined;  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  discus- 
sion about  some  game  that  he  ordered,  and  a  certain  brand  of 
champagne  that  was  to  his  liking. 

"If  they  make  me  comfortable  I  may  stop  on  a  goodish 
bit,"  he  informed  them,  "  until  we  have  settled  where  my 
aunt  would  like  to  live.  I  shall  run  up  to  London  every  few 
days,  and  can  do  all  your  commissions.  By  the  b3'e,  I  got  some 
trinkets  for  you  girls  on  my  way  down:  we  will  haul  them 
over  when  I  come  up  for  the  cup  of  coffee  Aunt  Catherine 
promised  me  this  evening." 

''  Now,  Harry,  we  don't  want  presents,"  remarked  Phillis, 
taking  him  to  task  as  easily  as  though  she  had  known  him  all 
her  life  long. 

In  spite  of  his  bigness,  his  great  burly  figure  and  plain  face, 
ihere  was  something  very  pleasant  about  him.  He  was  rough 
^nd  unpolislitd,  his  dress  was  careless  and  of  colonial  cut,  and 
yet  one  could  not  fail  to  see  he  was  a  gentleman.  His  boyish- 
^less  and  fun  would  have  delighted  Dick,  who  was  of  the  same 
caliber;  only  Dick  was  far  cleverer,  and  had  more  in  his  little 
linger  than  this  great  lumbering  Harry  in  his  whole  body. 

He  was  slow  and  clumsy,  but  his  heart  and  intentions  were 
«^xcellent;  he  was  full  of  tenderness  for  women,  and  showed  a 
touching  sort  of  chivalry  in  his  intercourse  with  them.  In 
lome  ways  his  manners  were  far  finer  than  those  of  a  New 
8ond  Street  gentleman;  for. he  could  not  sneer  at  a  woman, 
lie  believed  in  the  goodness  of  the  sex,  in  spite  of  much  knowl- 
edge to  the  contrary;  he  could  not  tell  a  lie,  and  he  only 
cheated  himself.  This  was  saving  a  good  deal  for  the  son  of 
that  very  black  sheep,  Sir  Francis;  but,  as  Sir  Harry  once 
simply  observed,  "  his  mother  was  a  good  woman."  If  this  were 
the  case,  her  husband's  vices  must  have  shortened  her  life,  for 
she  died  young. 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  323 

Phillis  was  glad  when  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  town: 
she  found  her  cousin's  long  purse  a  difficulty:  it  seemed  an 
impossibility  to  get  him  past  the  shops. 

First,  he  was  sure  Aunt  Catherine  was  fond  of  champagne 
— all  ladies  liked  sweet,  sparkling  things;  but  he  would  see 
about  that  at  the  hotel  presently.  Then  his  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  some  grouse  hanging  up  at  the  poulterer's.  Aunt 
Catherine  must  have  some  grouse,  as  he  remembered  the  cold 
mutton.  Phillis  made  no  objection  to  the  grouse,  for  she 
knew  her  mother's  fondness  for  game;  but  she  waxed  indig- 
nant when  partridges  and  a  hare  were  added,  and  still  more 
when  Sir  Marry  ransacked  the  fruiterers  for  a  supjDly  of  the 
rarest  fruit  the  town  could  afford.  After  this,  he  turned  his 
attention  to  cakes  and  bonbons;  but  here  Dulce  took  his 
part,  for  she  loved  bonbons.  Phillis  caught  Kan  by  the  arm 
and  compelled  her  to  leave  them;  but  Mattie  deserted  her 
friends,  ^and  remained  to  watch  the  fun. 

Daice^grew  frightened  at  last,  and  tried  to  coax  her  cousin 
away. 

"  Oh,  no  more— no  more!'^  she  pleaded.  "  Phillis  and 
Nan  will  be  so  angry  with  us." 

*'l  don't  see  anything  more  worth  getting,'^  returned  her 
cousin,  contemptuously.  "  What  a  place  this  is,  to  be  sure! 
Never  mind,  Dulce;  I  am  going  up  to  London  to-morrow, 
and  1  will  bring  you  down  as  many  bonbons  as  you  like  from 
the  French  place  in  Regent  Street.  I  will  bring  Miss  Mattie 
some  too,"  he  continued,  as  the  girls  hurried  him  along. 
"  And,  Dulce,  just  write  out  a  list  of  what  you  girls  want, 
and  I  will  get  them,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Harry.'' 


>t 


CHAPTER  XL. 

ALCIDES. 

There  was  quite  a  battle-royal  on  the  sea-shore  after  that. 
Dulce  and  Phillis  pelted  Laddie  with  bonbons,  while  their 
mother  enjoyed  her  nap  in  the  snug  parlor.  And  Dorothy, 
pleased,  bewildered,  and  half  frightened  at  what  the  mistress 
might  say,  stowed  away  game  and  fruit  and  confectionery  in 
the  tiny  larder,  and  then  turned  her  attention  to  such  a  tea  as 
her  young  ladies  had  not  seen  since  the  Glen  Cottage  days. 

Laddie  raced  and  barked,  and  nearly  made  himself  ill  with 
the  sweet  things;  and  Nan  laughed,  and  then  grew  serious  as 
she  remembered  an  afternoon  in  the  Longmead  meadows, 
when  Dick,  in  wild  spirits,  had  pelted  her  and  Phillis  with 


324  IsOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

roses  until  their  laps  were  full  of  the  delicious,  fragrant  leaves. 
"  '  Sweets  to  the  sweet ' — so  look  out  for  yourself,  Nan!"  he 
said  in  his  half-rough,  boyish  way.  But  that  was  in  the  days 
when  both  were  very  young  and  Dick  had  not  learned  to 
make  love. 

Mattie  joined  in  the  game  a  little  awkwardly — it  was  so  long 
since  the  poor  little  woman  had  played  at  anything.  Her 
younger  sisters  never  chose  Mattie  in  their  games.  "  She 
makes  such  mistakes,  and  puts  us  out;  and  that  spoils  the 
fun,"  they  said;  and  so  Grace  was  their  favorite  playfellow. 

For  it  is  perfectly  true  that  some  grown-uj)  people  have  for- 
gotten how  to  play,  while  others  are  such  children  at  heart 
that  they  can  abandon  themselves  most  joyously  and  grace- 
fully to  any  game,  however  romping;  but  Mattie,  who  was 
sobered  by  frequent  snubbing,  was  not  one  of  these.  She 
loved  fun  still,  in  her  way,  but  not  as  Phillis  and  Dulce,  who 
thought  it  the  cream  of  life  and  would  not  be  content  with 
the  sort  of  skimmed-milk  existence  of  other  young  ladies. 

Sir  Harry  watched  them  admiringly,  and  his  enthusiasm 
grew  every  moment. 

"  I  say,  you  are  the  right  sort,  and  no  mistake.  I  never 
mot  jollier  girls  in  all  my  life.  A  fellow  would  not  know 
which  to  choose:  w^ould  he,  Miss  Mattie?" 

Mattie  took  this  seriously. 

"  Nan  is  chosen — are  you  not.  Nan?"  she  said,  in  her 
downright  fashion.  And  then,  as  Sir  Harry  stared  at  this, 
and  Nan  blushed  and  looked  even  prettier,  Phillis  first  scolded 
Mattie  soundly  for  her  bluntness,  and  then  took  upon  herself 
to  describe  Dick's  perfections: 

"  The  dearest  fellow  in  the  world,  Harry,  when  you  come 
to  know  him;  but  not  handsome,  and  dreadfully  young-look- 
ing, some  people  think.  But,  as  Nan  will  not  look  at  any 
one  else,  we  must  make  the  best  of  him." 

"And  when  are  they  to  be  married?"  asked  her  cousin, 
curiously.     He  was  not  quite  pleased  with  this  discovery. 

"  \Yhen?  Oh,  Harrj',  there  is  an  'if'  in  the  case,"  re- 
turned Phillis,  solemnly.  "  The  dearest  fellow  in  the  world 
has  an  oger  of  a  father — a  man  so  benighted,  so  narrow  in 
his  prejudices,  that  he  thinks  it  decidedly  infra  dig.  for  his 
intended  daughter-in-law  to  sew  other  people's  gowns.  1  do 
love  that  expression,  Harry;  it  is  so  forcible.  So  he  forbids 
the  bans.  *' 

"  No,  really!  Is  she  serious,  Nan?"  But  Nan  grew  shy 
all  at  once  and  would  not  answer. 

"  I  am  serious.  Sir  Henry  Challoner,"  replied  Phillis,  pomp- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  3^5 

ously.     "  The  path  of  true  love  is  impeded.     Poor  Dick  is 

Eining  in  his  rooms  afc  Oxford;  aud  IS^aii — well,  I  am  afraid 
er  looks  belie  her;  only  you  knew  appearances  are  sometimes 
deceitful."  Aud  indeed  Kan's  pink  cheeks  and  air  of  placid 
contentment  scarcely  bore  ont  her  sister's  words. 

The  newly  found  cousin  safc  in  silent  perplexity,  Blaring  at 
them  both.  Love  affairs  were  not  much  in  his  vfay;  aud  un- 
til now  he  had  never  been  thrown  much  with  his  equals  in  the 
other  sex.  His  rough  colonial  life,  full  of  excitement  and 
money-getthig,  had  engrossed  his  youth.  He  was  now  a  mau 
of  thirty;  but  in  disijosition,  in  simplicity,  and  in  a  certain 
guilelessness  of  speech,  he  seemed  hardly  more  than  an  over- 
grown boy. 

"  Well,  now,  is  it  not  like  a  book?"  he  said,  at  last,  break- 
ing the  silence  abrujDtly.  "  It  must  be  an  awful  bother  for 
you,  Nan;  but  we  must  put  a  stop  to  all  that.  1  am  the  head 
of  the  family;  and  1  shall  have  a  word  to  say  to  that  Mr. — 
what  is  his  name?" 

"  Mr.  Mayue,"  returned  Nan,  softly. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  name  of  Hercules  came  into 
Phillis's  head  for  her  cousin.  What  feats  of  strength  did  he 
mean  to  undertake  on  their  behalf?  Would  he  strangle  the 
hydra-headed  monster  of  public  opinion  that  pronounced 
*'  women  who  sewed  other  women's  gowns"  were  not  to  be 
received  into  society?  Would  he  help  Nan  gather  the  golden 
apples  of  satisfied  love  and  ambition?  What  was  it  that  he 
meant  to  do  by  dint  of  sheer  force  and  good  nature? 

Harry  Challoner  did  not  long  leave  them  in  ignorance  of  his 
intentions.  In  the  coolest  possible  way  he  at  once  assumed 
the  headship  of  the  family — adopting  them  at  once,  and  giv- 
ing them  the  benefit  of  his  opinions  on  every  point  that  could 
possibly  be  mooted. 

"  I  had  not  a  soul  belonging  to  me  until  now,"  he  said, 
looking  around  on  his  cousins'  bright  faces  with  a  glow  of 
honest  satisfaction  on  his  own.  "  It;  made  a  fellow  feel  pre- 
cious lonely  out  there,  1  can  tell  you." 

"  You  ought  to  have  married,  Harry,"  suggested  Dulce. 

"  I  never  thought  any  one  would  care  for  such  a  great  hulk- 
ing fellow,"  he  returned,  simply;  "  and  then  the  girls  ever 
there  were  not  to  my  taste.  Besides,  1  never  thought  of  it; 
I  was  too  busy.  I  am  going  to  take  a  holiday  now,  and  look 
about  me  a  little;  and  when  you  and  Aunt  Catherine  are  set- 
tled, I  may  have  a  try  myself  at  some  one,"  he  finished,  with 
a  big  laugh. 

This  notion  amused  the  girls  immensely,  then  and  after' 


B26  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

ward.  They  began  to  talk  of  the  future  Lady  Challoner. 
!Nau  proposed  one  of  the  Paines.  Phillis  thought  if  Grace 
Druniniond  were  only  as  street  looking  as  her  photograph,  he 
could  hardly  help  falling  in  love  with  her.  And  Dulce  was  of 
opinion  that  Adelaide  Sartoris,  handsome  and  queenly  as  she 
was,  would  not  consider  a  baronet  beneath  her.  They  confided 
all  these  thoughts  to  Sir  Harry,  who  thanked  them  quite 
gravely  for  their  interest  and  promised  to  consider  the  matter. 
He  even  v/rote  down  the  names  in  his  pocket-book  one  after 
another. 

"  Adelaide  Sartoris,  did  you  say?  Ah,  he  had  an  Adelaide 
at  Sydney,  a  little,  dark  thing,  with  hair  blown  all  over  her 
temples,  and  such  a  pair  of  mischievous  eyes.  That  girl  was 
always  laughing  at  me,  somehow.  And  yet  she  seemed  sorry 
to  bid  me  good-bye." 

"  Perhaps  she  was  in  love  with  you?"  observed  Dulce.  But 
Phillis  frowned  at  this.  She  thought  they  had  gone  too  far  in 
their  jokes  already  with  a  cousin  who  was  such  a  complete 
stranger.     But  he  returned,  quite  gravely: 

"  Well,  now,  you  know,  such  a  thing  never  came  into  my 
head.  I  talked  to  her  because  a  fellow  likes  to  be  amused  by 
a  lively  girl  like  Miss  Addie.  But  as  to  thinking  seriously  of 
her — well,  I  coiild  not  stand  that,  you  know,  to  be  laughed  at 
all  one's  life:  eh.  Miss  Mattie?"  And  Mattie  at  this  appeal 
looked  up  with  round,  innocent  eyes,  and  said,  "  Certainly 
not,^'  in  such  an  impressive  tone  that  the  other  girls  burst  out 
laughing. 

They  all  went  home  after  that.  Sir  Harry  escorted  his 
cousins  and  Mattie  to  the  Friar}',  and  then  returned  to  his 
hotel  to  dinner.  But  the  girls,  who  were  in  a  merry  mood, 
would  not  part  with  Mattie.  They  sent  her  home  to  put  on 
her  green  silk  dress,  with  strict  orders  that  she  was  to  return 
as  soo.'i  as  possible. 

"  We  are  all  going  to  make  ourselves  pretty,"  announced 
Phillis.  '*  A  cousin  does  not  turn  up  every  day;  and  when 
he  promises  to  be  a  good  fellow,  like  Harry,  we  can  not  do 
him  too  much  honor." 

"  Ah,  I  should  like  to  come,'*  returned  Mattie.  "  I  have 
had  surh  a  nice  day;  and,  if  Archie  will  not  mind — "  And 
then  she  bustled  into  the  vicarage,  and  into  her  brother's 
study. 

Archie  roused  himself  a  little  wearily  from  his  abstraction 
to  listen  to  his  sister's  story;  but  at  the  end  of  it  he  said  good- 
naturedly,  for  he  had  taught  himsulf  to  be  tolerant  of  Mattie's 
little  gaucheries: 


l>rOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  327 

*'  And  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  you  want  to  be  gad- 
ding again.  Well,  rim  and  get  ready,  or  you  will  keep  their 
tea  waiting;  and  do  put  on  your  collar  straight,  Mattie. "  But 
this  slight  thrust  was  lost  on  Mattie  as  she  delightedly  with- 
drevr.  Archie  sighed  as  he  tried  to  compose  himself  to  his 
reading.  He  had  not  been  asked  to  join  Mattie.  For  the 
last  few  weeks  he  had  become  a  stranger  to  the  cottage.  Did 
they  notice  his  absence?  he  wondered.  Did  they  miss  the 
visits  that  had  once  been  so  frequent?  By  and  by  he  would  re- 
sume his  old  habits  of  intimacy,  and  go  among  them  as  he  had 
done;  but  just  now  the  effort  was  too  painful.  He  dreaded 
the  unspoken  sympathy  in  Phillis's  eyes.  He  dreaded  any- 
thing like  an  understanding  between  them.  iJsan's  perfect 
unconsciousness  was  helpful  to  him;  but  there  was  something 
in  Phillis's  manner  that  stirred  up  an  old  pain.  For  the  pres- 
ent he  was  safer  and  happier  alone  in  his  study,  though  Mattie 
did  not  think  so,  and  told  her  friends  that  Archie  looked  ter- 
ribly dull. 

Mrs.  Challoner  proposed  sending  for  him;  but  Phillis, 
greatly  to  her  mother's  surprise,  negatived  the  j)roposition: 

"  Oh,  no,  mother;  pray  do  not!  Mattie,  you  must  excuse 
me.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  rude,  but  we  should  all  have  to  be 
so  dreadfully  well  behaved  if  Mr.  Drummond  came,  and  I  just 
feel  myself  in  a  '  nonsense  mood,'  as  Dulce  used  to  say  when 
she  was  a  baby."  And  then  they  all  forgot  Archie,  and  fell 
to  discussing  the  new  cousin. 

"He  is  dreadfully  ugly,  mammie,  is  he  not?"  observed 
Dulce,  who  had  a  horror  of  red  hair.  But  Mrs.  Challoner 
demurred: 

"  Well,  no,  pet;  I  can  not  agree  v/ith  you.  He  is  very 
plain,  but  so  is  Dick;  but  it  struck  me  they  were  both  rather 
alike."  An  indignant  "  How  can  you,  mother!"  from  Xan. 
"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  continued,  jslacidly,  *'  1  do  not  mean 
really  alike,  for  they  have  not  a  feature  in  common;  but  they 
have  both  got  the  same  honest,  open  look,  only  Dick's  face  is 
more  intelligent."  But  this  hardly  appeased  Nan,  who  was 
heard  to  say,  under  her  breath,  "  tliat  she  thought  Dick  had 
the  nicest  face  in  the  world." 

"  And  Sir  Harry  has  a  nice  face,  too;  has  he  not,  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner?" exclaimed  Mattie,  who  never  could  be  silent  in  a  dis- 
cussion. "It  takes  time  to  get  used  to  such  very  red  hair; 
and,  of  course,  he  is  dreadfully  big — almost  too  big,  I  should 
say.  But  when  he  talks  he  has  such  a  good-natured  way  with 
Jiim;  now,  hasn't  he?"  appealing  to  Nan,  who  looked  just  a 


328  HOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

little  glum — that  is,  glum  for  Nan,  for  she  could  not  do  the 
sulks  properly;  she  could  ouly  look  dignified. 

Mrs.  Challoner  grew  a  little  alarmed  at  her  daughter's  de- 
mure face:  "Nan,  darling,  you  know  I  am  as  fond  of  Dick 
as  possible;  but  I  can  not  help  being  pleased  with  my  nephew; 
can  1?  And  1  must  say  1  think  Harry  is  very  nice,  in  spite 
of  his  roughness."  But  here  Phillis,  who  had  been  unac- 
countably silent,  suddenly  struck  in: 

"Mother,  it  was  a  mistake  mentioning  Dick:  the  name  is 
sacred.  Nan,  if  it  will  please  you,  we  will  declare  that  he  is 
beautiful  as  a  young  Aijollo." 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  Phil!"  from  her  sister.  But  Nan  was 
smiling. 

"  As  for  Harry,  he  is  a  perfect  hero.  I  expect  great  things 
from  the  great  men.  To  my  imagination  he  is  a  perfect 
Hercules — Heracles,  son  of  Zeus  and  Alcmene.  I  wonder  if 
Harry  could  tell  us  the  name  of  Hercules'  mother?" 

"  Of  course  not,  and  no  one  else,  either/'  retorted  Dulce. 

But  Phillis  did  not  heed  this. 

"  To  me  he  shall  be  the  young  Alcides.  He  has  promised 
to  fight  the  Nemaean  lion,  in  the  shape  of  Richard  Mayne  the 
elder.  By  and  by  we  shall  have  him  striking  oS  the  heads  of 
the  Lernean  Hydra.  You  look  mystified.  Nan.  And  1  per- 
ceive Mattie  has  a  perplexed  countenance.  I  am  afraid  you 
are  deficient  in  heathen  mythology;  but  I  will  spare  your  ig- 
norance.    You  will  see,  though,  I  am  right — " 

"  But,  Phillis,"  broke  in  Dulce,  eagerly.  But  Phillis  waved 
her  hand  majestically  at  the  interruption: 

"  Mother,  to  be  serious,  I  consider  Harry  in  the  light  of  a 
providential  interposition.  You  are  always  mourning  that 
there  is  not  a  man  belonging  to  us.  Well,  now  we  have  got 
one,  large  as  life,  and  larger,  and  a  very  good  fellow,  as  you 
say;  and  we  are  no  longer  '  forlorn  females.'  " 

"  And  indeed,  Phillis,  I  am  most  thankful  for  that,  my 
dear;  for  if  Harry  be  only  as  good  as  a  brother  to  you — " 

"  He  means  to  be  more,'"  returned  Phillis,  with  a  sage  nod 
of  her  head.  "  He  talks  in  the  coolest  way,  as  though  he  had 
adopted  the  whole  family  and  meant  to  put  a  spoke  into  the 
domestic  wheel.  '  1  must  put  a  stop  to  this,'  or  '  That  must 
be  altered,'  has  been  a  frequent  remark  of  his.  Mother,  if 
he  is  dreadfully  rich,  as  he  says,  does  he  mean  to  make  us 
rich  too?" 

"  My  dear,  we  have  no  claim  on  him." 

"  He  thinks  we  have  the  strongest  possible  claim;  does  he 
not,  Nan?    You  should  have  heard  him  talk  this  afternooni 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GIRLS.  329 

Accoi-fliag  to  him,  we  were  never  to  sew  gowns  again;  Nan 
and  Dick  were  to  be  immediately  united;  the  Friary  was  to 
be  pulled  down,  and  a  glorified  Gleu  Cottage  to  be  erected  in 
its  stead.  But,  mother  " — here  Phillis's  lips  grew  plaintive 
— "  you  won't  desert  your  own  girls,  and  be  talked  over  even 
by  an  Alcides?  We  do  not  mean  to  have  our  little  deeds 
put  on  the  shelf  in  that  oif-haud  fashion.  I  shall  sew  gowns 
as  long  as  I  like,  in  spite  of  a  hundred  Sir  Harrys.*' 

And  then  they  perceived  that  under  Phillis's  fun  there  was 
a  vein  of  serious  humor,  and  that,  in  spite  of  her  admiration 
of  her  hero,  she  was  a  little  afraid  that  her  notions  of  inde- 
pendence would  be  wounded. 

They  became  divided  on  the  question.  Mrs.  Challoner,  who 
bad  never  had  a  son  of  her  own,  and  did  not  much  like  the 
idea  of  a  son-in-law,  was  disposed  to  regard  her  nephew 
warmly,  and  to  accord  him  at  once  his  privilege  of  being 
head  of  the  family. 

"  In  this  case  a  cousin  is  as  good  as  a  brother,"  she  averred; 
and  Nan  rather  leaned  to  her  opinion. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  in  her  practical  way,  addressing  no 
one  in  particular,  but  looking  at  Phillis,  "  it  has  been  terribly 
against  us,  having  no  cne  belonging  to  us  of  the  same  name; 
and  it  will  really  give  us  a  standing  with  some  sort  of  people." 

"  Fy,  Nan!  what  a  worldly  speech!  You  are  thinking  of 
that  tiresome  Mayne  pere  again." 

"  1  have  to  think  of  him,"  returned  Nan,  not  at  all  put 
out  by  this.  "  Dick's  father  must  be  a  person  of  great  im- 
portance to  me.  He  has  often  hinted  in  my  hearing  that  we 
have  no  relations,  and  that  the  Challoner  name  will  die  out. 
1  expect  he  will  be  rather  taken  aback  at  Harry's  appearance. " 

"  Yes;  and  Dick  will  be  jealous:  he  always  is  of  other  fel- 
lows, as  he  calls  them.  You  must  score  that  up  against  Dick, 
please.  Well,  1  won't  deny  that  Harry  may  make  himself 
useful  there:  all  1  protest  against  is  the  idea  that  he  will 
bundle  us  out  of  this  dear  old  Friary,  and  make  us  graudj,  in 
spite  of  ourselves." 

"  Dear  old  Friary!  Oh,  oh!"  gasped  Dulce;  and  even  Nan 
looked  mildly  surprised. 

"  He  will  not  make  me  give  up  my  work  until  I  choose," 
continued  Phillis,  who  was  in  an  obstinate  mood.  "  It  is  not 
make-believe  play- work,  I  cai>  tell  him  that;''  but  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner grew  tearful  at  this. 

"  Phillis,  my  dear,  pray  hush!  Indeed — indeed  I  can  not 
have  you  talking  as  though  you  meant  and  wished  to  be  a, 
dress-maker  all  your  life." 


330  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

And  when  Phillis  asked,  "  Why  not?''  just  for  the  sake  of 
argument — for  in  her  heart  she  was  growing  heartily  sick  of 
her  employment — her  mother  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair: 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Drummond,  do  not  beheve  her:  Philh's 
is  a  good  girl,  but  she  is  always  like  that — hard  to  be  con- 
vinced. She  does  not  really  mean  it.  She  has  worked  harder 
than  any  of  them,  but  she  has  only  done  it  for  her  mother's 
sake," 

"  Of  course  she  does  not  mean  it,"  echoed  Nan,  affection- 
ately, and  much  struck  by  a  sudden  yearning  look  on  Phil- 
lis's  face — an  expression  of  smothered  jjain;  but  Phillis  drew 
away  from  her  sister's  gentle  grasp. 

"  I  do  mean  it!"  she  said,  almost  passionately.  "  I  am 
dreadfully  tired  of  work  sometimes,  and  hate  it.  Oh,  how  I 
hate  it!  But  I  think  I  have  been  happy  too.  I  liked  the  ex- 
citement of  the  fighting,  and  the  novelty  of  the  thing;  it  was 
such  fun — first  shocking  people,  and  then  winning  them  over 
in  spite  of  themselves.  One  felt  '  plucky,'  as  Harry  said. 
And  then  one's  friends  were  so  real."  And  her  eyes  fell  un- 
consciously on  Mattie. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Mattie,  with  her  usual  gush:  "  Archie 
and  I  took  to  you  from  the  first.  1  must  say  I  was  surprised, 
knowing  how  fastidious  Archie  was,  and  his  notions  about 
young  ladies  in  general.  But,  dear,  he  never  would  hear  a 
word  against  you:  he  was  even  angry  with  Colonel  Middleton 
the  other  day  because — but  there!  I  ought  not  to  have  told 
you  that." 

"  Oh,  we  know  ail  about  it,"  returned  Phillis,  carelessly; 
but  Dulce's  bright  face  looked  a  little  overcast.  "  Son  Ham- 
mond js  in  the  case;  and  we  can  all  judge  of  a  father's  feel- 
ings by  a  certain  example  that  shall  be  nameless.  Good  gra- 
cious, mammie!  there  comes  the  Alcides himself,  and  Dorothy 
has  not  cleared  the  tea-things!  I  vote  we  meet  him  in  the 
garden,  to  avert  breakages."  And  Phiilis's  proposition  was 
carried  out. 

But  when  they  were  all  seated  in  the  little  parlor  again,  and 
the  lamp  was  brought,  sundry  packages  made  their  appear- 
ance, and  were  delightedly  unpacked  by  the  girls,  Phillis  as- 
sisting with  great  interest,  in  spite  of  her  heroic  speeches. 

"  One  can  accept  gifts  from  a  cousin,"  she  said   afterward. 

Sir  Harry  had  shown  good  taste  in  his  purchases.  The 
ornaments  and  knickknacks  were  all  pretty  and  well  chosen. 
The  good-natured  fellow  had  ransacked  the  shops  in  Paris  for 
such  things  as  he  thought  would  please  his  unknown  cousins. 
The  bracelets  and  fans  and  gloves  and  iaces  made  Dulce  al- 


iror    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  831 

most  daoce  with  glee.  The  lace  was  for  Aunt  Catherine,  he 
said;  and  there  were  gloves  for  everybody— dozens  and  dozens 
of  them.  But  the  fans  and  bracelets  were  for  the  girls,  and 
to-morrow  he  would  get  the  bonbons  for  Dulce.  And  then, 
as  the  girls  laughingly  apportioned  the  spoil,  he  whispered 
something  to  Kan,  at  which  she  nodded  and  smiled. 

Mattie,  who  was  carefully  admiring  the  lace  in  her  short- 
sighted way,  felt  something  touch  her  elbow,  and  found  Xau 
pushing  a  fan  and  a  parcel  of  gloves  toward  her— beautiful 
gloves,  such  as  Isabel  had  in  her  trousseau. 

"  Yes,  take  them;  we  have  so  many;  and,  indeed,  we  have 
no  use  for  more  than  a  fan  apiece.  Oh,  you  extravagant 
Harry  I" 

Sir  Harry  laughed  as  he  balanced  the  fan  clu^-sHy  on  his 
huge  finger: 

"  Take  it;  you  are  very  welcome.  Miss  Mattie.  You  know 
we  are  quite  old  acquaintances;  and,  indeed,  I  look  on  you  as 
a  sort  of  cousin." 

"  Oh,  dear!  thank  you;  you  are  very  good,  Sir  Harry,*' 
cried  poor  Mattie,  blushing  with  pleasure. 

Kever  had  she  spent  such  a  day  in  her  life — a  day  wherein 
she  had  not  been  once  snubbed,  except  in  that  remark  of 
Archie's  about  her  collar,  and  that  did  not  matter. 

"  Poor  little  woman,  she  looks  very  happy!"  observed  Mrs. 
Challoner,  benevolently,  as  Mattie  gathered  up  her  spoils  and 
went  out  of  the  room,  accompanied  by  Dulce.  "  She  is  such 
a  good  little  soul,  and  so  amiable,  that  it  is  a  pity  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  is  always  finding  fault  with  her.  It  spoils  him,  some- 
how; and  I  am  sure  she  bears  it  very  well."  She  s|)oke  to 
Kan,  for  her  nephew  seemed  engrossed  with  tying  njj  Lad- 
die's front  paw  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  I  am  afraid,  from  what  she  says,  that  they  all  snub  her 
at  home,"  returned  Kan.  "  It  seems  Grace  is  the  favorite; 
but  you  know,  mother,  Mattie  is  just  a  little  tiresome  and 
awkward  at  times.'* 

"  Y"os;  but  she  is  very  much  improved.  And  I  must  say 
her  temper  is  of  the  sweetest;  for  she  never  bears  her  brother 
any  malice."  But  at  that  moment  Mattie  re-entered  the 
room,  and  Sir  Harry,  releasing  Laddie,  proceeded,  as  in  duty 
bound,  to  escort  her  to  the  vicarage. 


$32  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

SIR   HARRY  BIDES  HIS  TIME. 


Phillis  might  have  spared  herself  that  little  outburst  to 
which  she  had  given  vent  on  the  day  of  her  cousiu*s  arriv^al. 
For,  in  spite  of  the  lordly  way  in  which  he  had  claimed  his 
prerogative  as  the  only  male  Challoner,  Sir  Harry  took  no 
further  steps  to  interfere  with  her  liberty:  indeed,  as  the  days 
and  even  the  weeks  passed  away,  and  nothing  particular  hap- 
pened in  them,  she  was  even  a  little  disappointed. 

For  it  is  one  thing  to  foster  heroic  intentions,  but  quite  an- 
other when  one  has  no  choice  in  the  matter.  The  heroism 
seemed  lost,  somehow,  when  no  one  took  the  trouble  to  com- 
bat her  resolution.  Phillis  began  to  tire  of  her  work — nay, 
more,  to  feel  positive  disgust  at  it.  The  merry  evenings  gave 
her  a  distaste  for  her  morning  labors,  and  the  daylight  seemed 
sometimes  as  though  it  would  never  fade  into  dark,  so  as  to 
give  her  an  excuse  for  folding  up  her  work. 

These  fits  of  impatience  were  intermittent,  and  she  spoke 
of  them  to  no  one;  in  other  respects  the  ne^v  cousin  brought 
a  great  deal  of  brightness  and  pleasure  into  their  daily  life. 

They  all  grew  very  fond  of  him.  Mrs.  Challoner,  indeed, 
was  soon  heard  to  say  she  almost  loved  him  like  a  son — a 
speech  that  reached  Dick's  ears  by  and  by,  and  made  him  ex- 
cessively angry.  "  I  should  like  to  kick  that  fellow,"  he 
growled,  as  he  read  the  words.  But,  then,  Dick  never  liked 
interlopers.  He  had  conceived  a  hatred  of  Mr.  Drummond 
on  the  spot.  Sir  Harry  took  up  his  quarters  at  the  same  hotel 
where  Dick  and  his  father  had  spent  that  one  dreary  evening. 
He  gave  lavish  orders  and  excited  a  great  deal  of  attention 
and  talk  by  his  careless  muuificence.  Without  being  posi- 
tively extravagant,  he  had  a  free-handed  way  of  spending  his 
money;  as  he  often  said,  "  he  liked  to  see  things  comfortable 
about  him."  And,  as  his  notions  of  comfort  were  somewhat 
expensive,  his  host  soon  conceived  a  great  respect  for  him — all 
the  more  that  he  gave  himself  no  airs,  never  talked  about  his 
wealth,  except  to  his  cousins,  and  treated  his  title  as  though  it 
were  not  of  the  slightest  consequence  to  himself  or  any  one . 
else;  indeed,  he  was  decidedly  modest  in  all  matters  pertain- 
ing to  himself. 

But,  being  a  generous  soul,  he  loved  to  give.  Every  few 
days  he  went  up  to  Loudon,  and  he  never  returned  without 
bringing  gifts  to  the  Friary.     Dulce,  who  was  from  the  first 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  333 

his  chief  favorite,  reveled  in  French  bonbons;  hampers  of  wine, 
of  choice  game,  or  fruit  from  Covent  Garden,  filled  the  tiny 
larder  to  overflowing.  Silks  and  ribbons,  and  odds  and  ends 
of  female  finery,  were  sent  down  from  Marshall  &  Suelgrove's, 
or  Svvan  &  Edgar's.  In  vain  Mrs.  Challouer  implored  him 
not  to  spoil  the  giris,  who  had  never  had  so  many  pretty 
things  in  their  lives,  and  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with  them. 
Sir  Harry  would  not  deny  himself  this  pleasure,  and  he  came 
up  evening  after  evening,  overflowing  with  health  and  spirits, 
to  join  the  family  circle  in  the  small  parlor  and  euhveu  them 
v^ith  his  stories  of  colonial  life. 

People  began  to  talk  about  him.  He  was  too  big  and  too 
prominent  a  figure  to  pass  unnoticed  in  Hadleigh.  The  Chal- 
lonors  and  their  odd  ways,  and  their  cousin  the  baronet  who 
was  a  milliouaire  and  unmarried,  were  canvassed  in  many  a 
drawing-room.  "  We  always  knew  they  were  not  just  '  no- 
bodies,' "  as  one  young  lady  observed;  and  another  remarked, 
a  little  scornfully,  "  that  she  supposed  Sir  Henry  Challoner 
would  put  a  stop  to  all  that  ridiculous  dress-making  now." 
But  when  they  found  that  Nan  and  Phillis  went  about  as 
usual,  taking  orders  and  fitting  on  dresses,  their  astonishment 
knew  no  bounds. 

Sir  Harry  watched  them  with  a  secret  chuckle.  "  He  must 
put  a  stop  to  all  that  presently,"  he  said;  but  just  at  first  it 
amused  him  to  see  it  all  "  It  was  so  pretty  and  plucky  of 
them,"  he  thought. 

He  would  saunter  into  the  work-room  in  the  morning,  and 
watch  them  for  an  hour  together  as  he  sat  and  talked  to  them. 
After  the  first  they  never  minded  him,  and  his  presence  made 
no  difference  to  them.  Nan  measured  and  cut  out,  and  con- 
sulted Phillis  in  her  difficulties,  as  usual.  Dulce  sung  over  her 
sewing-machine,  and  Phillis  went  from  one  to  the  other  with' 
a  grave,  intent  face.  Sometimes  lihe  would  speak  petulantly 
to  him,  and  bid  him  not  whistle  or  tease  Laddie;  but  that  was 
when  one  of  her  fits  of  impatience  was  on  her.  She  was  gen- 
erally gracious  to  him,  and  made  him  welcome. 

When  he  was  tired  of  sitting  quiet,  he  would  take  refuge 
with  Aunt  Catherine  in  her  little  parlor,  or  go  into  the  vicar- 
age for  a  chat  with  Mattie  and  her  brother:  he  was  becoming 
very  intimate  there.  Sometimes,  but  not  often,  he  would  call 
at  the  White  House;  but,  though  the  Cheynes  liked  him,  and 
Magdalpne  was  amused  at  his  simplicity,  there  was  not  much 
m  common  between  them. 

He  had  taken  a  liLing  to  Colonel  Middleton  and  his 
daughter,  and  would  have  found  his  way  to  Brooklyn  over  and 


S34  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

over  again,  only  the  colonel  gave  him  no  encouragement. 
They  had  met  accidentally  in  the  gi-ounds  of  the  White  House, 
and  Mr.  Cheyne  had  introduced  them  to  each  other;  Dut  the 
colonel  bore  himself  very  stiffly  on  that  occasion  and  ever  after 
when  they  met  on  the  Parade  and  in  the  reading-room.  In- 
his  heart  he  was  secretly  attracted  by  Sir  Harry's  blunt  ways 
and  honest  face;  but  he  was  a  cousin  of  those  Challoners,  and 
intimacy  was  not  to  be  desired;  so  their  intercourse  was  lim- 
ited to  a  brief  word  or  two. 

"  Your  father  does  not  want  to  know  me,"  he  said  once,  in 
his  outspoken  way,  to  Miss  Middleton,  when  they  met  at  the 
very  gate  of  Broooklyn,  and  she  had  asked  him,  with  some 
little  hesitation,  if  he  were  coming  in.  "  It  is  a  pity,"  he 
added,  regretfully,  '*  for  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  him;  he  seema 
a  downright  good  sort,  and  we  agree  in  politics." 

Elizabeth  blushed:  for  once  her  courtesy  and  love  of  truth 
were  sadly  at  variance. 

"  He  does  like  you  very  much.  Sir  Harry,"  she  said;  and 
then  she  hesitated. 

"  Only  my  cousins  sew  gowns,"  he  returned,  with  a  twinkle 
of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  "  so  he  must  not  encourage  me — 
eh,  Miss  Middleton?  as  we  are  all  in  the  same  boat.  Well, 
we  must  allow  for  prejudices.  By  and  by  we  will  alter  all 
that."  And  then  he  gave  her  a  good-natured  nod,  aiid  saun- 
tered awav  to  tell  his  old  friend  Mattie  all  about  it;  for  he  had 
a  kindly  feeling  toward  the  little  woman,  and  made  her  his 
confidante  on  these  occasions. 

Phillis  still  called  him  Abides,  to  his  endless  mystification; 
but  she  privately  wondered  when  his  labors  were  to  begin. 
After  that  first  afternoon  he  did  not  speak  much  of  his  future 
intentions:  indeed,  he  was  a  little  reserved  with  the  girls,  con- 
sidering their  intimacy;  but  to  his  aunt  he  was  less  reticent. 

"  Do  you  know.  Aunt  Catherine,"  he  said  one  day  to  her, 
"  that  that  old  house  of  yours — Glen  Cottage,  is  it  not? — will 
soon  be  in  the  market?  Ibbetson  wants  to  get  off  the  re- 
mainder of  the  lease." 

Mrs.  Challoner  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  put  down  her 
knitting: 

"  Are  you  sure,  Harry?  Then  Aflelaide  was  right:  she  told 
me  in  her  last  letter  that  Mrs.  Ibbetson's  health  was  so  bad 
that  they  thought  of  wintering  at  Hyeres,  and  that  there  was 
some  talk  of  giving  up  the  house." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  true,"  he  returned,  carelessly:  "  Ibbetson 
told  me  so  himself.  It  is  a  pretty  little  place  enough,  and 
they  have  done  a  good  deal  to  it,  even  in  a  few  months:  they 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  335 

want  to  get  off  the  lease,  aud  rid  themselves  of  the  furniture, 
which  seems  to  be  all  new.  It  appears  they  have  had  some 
money  left  to  them  unexpectedly;  aud  now  Mrs.  Ibbetsou^s 
health  is  so  bad,  he  wants  to  try  traveling,  and  thinks  it  a  great 
pity  to  be  hampered  with  a  house  at  present.  I  should  say  the 
poor  little  woman  is  in  a  bad  way,  myself.'* 

"  Dear  me,  how  sad!  x4nd  they  have  been  married  so  short 
a  time — not  more  than  six  months.  She  comes  of  a  weakly 
stock,  1  fear.  I  always  said  she  looked  consumj)tive,  poor 
thing!  Dear  little  Glen  Cottage!  and  to  think  it  will  change 
hands  so  soon  again!" 

"  You  seem  fond  of  it.  Aunt  Catherine,''  for  her  tone  vs^as 
full  of  regret. 

"  My  dear,"  she  answered,  seriously,  "  I  al';vays  loved  that 
cottage  so!  The  drawing-room  and  the  garden  were  just  to 
my  taste;  and  then  the  girls  were  so  happy  there." 

"  Would  you  not  like  a  grander  house  to  live  in?"  he  asked, 
in  the  same  indifferent  tone.  "  I  do  not  think  it  is  half  good 
enough  for  you  and  the  girls." 

Mrs.  Challouer  opened  her  eyes  rather  widely  at  this:  but 
his  voice  gas^e  her  no  clew  to  his  real  meaning,  and  she  thought 
it  was  just  his  joking  way. 

"  It  would  seem  a  palace  after  this!"  she  returned,  with  a 
sigh.  "  Somehow  I  never  cared  for  great  big  houses;  they  are 
so  much  expense  to  keep  up;  and  when  one  has  not  a  man  in 
the  house — " 

"  Why,  you  have  me.  Aunt  Catherine!"  speaking  up  rather 
briskly. 

"  Yes,  my  dear;  and  you  are  a  great  comfort  to  us  all.  It 
is  so  nice  to  have  some  one  to  consult;  aud,  though  I  would 
not  say  so  to  Nan  for  the  world,  Dick  is  so  young  that  I  never 
could  consult  him." 

"  By  the  bye,  that  reminds  me,  I  must  have  a  look  at  that 
young  fellow,"  returned  her  nephew.  "  Let  me  see,  the  Ox- 
ford term  is  over,  and  he  will  be  home  again.  Suppose  1  run 
over  to  Oldfield — it  is  no  distance  from  town— and  leave  my 
card  on  Mr.  Mayne  senior?" 

"You,  Harry!"  And  Mrs.  Challouer  looked  quite  taken 
aback  at  the  proposition. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  candidly,  "  I  Ihink  it  is  about  time 
something  was  done:  Nan  looks  awfully  serious  sometimes. 
What  is  the  good  of  being  the  head  of  one's  family,  if  one  is 
not  to  settle  an  affair  like  that?  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  put 
up  with  anymore  nonsense  in  that  quarter,  lean  tell  you  that. 
Aunt  Catherine." 


336  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Butj  Harry,"  growiug  visibly  tilarmed,  "  you  do  not  know 
Mr.  Mayne:  he  can  make  himself  so  ex cessivel}' disagreeable/* 

"  So  can  most  men  when  they  like." 

"  Yes;  but  not  exactly  in  that  way.  1  believe  he  is  really 
very  fond  of  Dick,  but  he  wants  to  order  his  life  in  his  own 
way,  and  no  young  man  will  stand  that." 

"  Ko,  by  Jove!  that  is  rather  too  strong  for  a  fellow.  1 
should  say  Master  Dick  could  not  put  up  with  that." 

"  It  seems  my  poor  IS' an  is  not  good  enough  for  his  son, 
just  because  she  has  no  money  and  has  been  obliged  to  make 
herself  useful.  Does  it  not  seem  hard,  Harry?  my  beautiful 
Nan!  And  the  Maynes  are  just  nobodies:  why,  Mr.  Mayne's 
father  was  only  a  shopkeeper  in  a  very  small  way,  and  his 
wife's  family  was  no  better!" 

"  Well,  you  must  not  expect  me  to  understand  all  that," 
replied  her  nephew,  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "  In  the  colonies,  we 
did  not  think  much  about  that  sort  of  thing:  it  would  not 
have  done  there  to  inquire  too  narrowly  into  a  man's  aiiteced- 
ents.  I  knew  capital  fellows  whose  fathers  had  been  butchers, 
bakers,  and  candlestick-makers;  and,  bless  me!  what  does  it 
matter,  if  the  fellow  is  all  right  himself?"  he  finished,  for  the 
last  Challoner  .was  a  decided  Radical. 

But  Mrs.  Challoner,  who  was  mildly  obstinate  in  such 
matters,  would  not  yield  her  point: 

"  You  would  think  differently  if  you  had  been  educated  at 
Eton.  In  England,  it  is  necessary  to  discriminate  am:ng 
one's  acquaintances.  I  find  no  fault  with  Dick;  he  is  as  nice 
and  gentlemanly  as  possible;  but  his  father  has  not  got  his 
good  breeding;  possibly  he  has  not  his  advantages.  But  it  is 
they,  the  Maynes,  who  would  be  honored  by  an  alliance  with 
one  of  my  daughters."  And  Mrs.  Challoner  raised  her  head 
and  drew  herself  up  with  such  queenly  dignity  that  Sir  Harry 
dared  not  argue  the  point. 

"  Oh,  yes;  1  see,"  he  returned,  hastily.  "  Well,  I  thall  let 
him  know  what  you  think.  You  need  not  be  afraid  1 
shall  lower  your  dignity.  Aunt  Catherine.  I  meant  to  be 
rather  high  and  mighty  myself — that  is,  if  I  could  manage 
it."     And  he  broke  into  one  of  his  huge  laughs. 

Mrs.  Challoner  was  very  fond  of  her  nephew;  but  she  was 
not  a  clever  woman,  and  she  did  not  alwaj's  understand  his 
hints.  When  Lliey  were  alone  together,  he  was  perpetually 
making  this  sort  of  remarks  ta  her  in  a  half-serious,  half-jok- 
ing way.,  eliciting  her  opinions,  consulting  her  tastes,  with  a 
view  to  his  future  plans. 

With  the  girls  he  was  provokiugly  reticent.     Phillis  and 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS  337 

Dulce  used  to  catechise  him  sometimes,  but  his  replies  were 
always  evasive. 

"Do  you  know,  Harry,'*  Phillis  said  to  him  once,  very 
gravely,  "  I  think  you  are  leading  a  dreadfully  idle  life?  You 
do  nothing  absolutely  all  day  but  walk  to  and  fro  between  the 
hotel  and  the  Friary/' 

"  Come,  now,''  retorted  her  cousin,  in  an  injured  tone;  *'  I 
call  that  confoundedly  hard  on  a  fellow  who  has  come  all  these 
thousands  of  miles  just  to  cultivate  his  relations  and  enjoy  a 
little  relaxation.  Have  I  not  worked  hard  enough  all  my  life 
to  earn  a  holiday  now?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  returned,  provokingly;  "  we  all  know  how 
hard  you  have  worked;  but  all  the  same  it  does  not  do  to  play 
at  idleness  too  long.  You  are  very  much  improved,  Harry. 
Your  tailor  has  done  wonders  for  you;  and  I  should  not  be 
ashamed  to  walk  down  Bond  Street  with  you  any  afternoon, 
though  'the  people  do  stare,  because  you  are  so  big.  But  don't 
you  think  it  is  time  to  settle  down?  You  might  take  rooms 
somewhere.  Lord  Fitzroy  knows  of  some  ca2:)ital  ones  iu 
Sackville  Street;  Algie  Burgoyne  had  them.'* 

"  Well,  no,  thank  you,  Phillis;  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  in 
for  rooms." 

"  Well,  then,  a  house:  you  know  you  are  so  excessively 
rich,  Harry,"  drawling  out  her  words  in  imitation  of  his  rather 
slow  pronunciation. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  shall  take  a  house;  but  there  is  plenty  of 
time  for  that." 

And  when  she  pressed  him  somewhat  eagerly  to  tell  her  in 
what  neighborhood  he  meant  to  live,  he  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  remarked,  carelessly,  that  he  would,  have  a  look 
round  at  all  sorts  of  j)laces  by  and  by. 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  take  a  house  and  live  all  alone?" 
asked  Dulce.     "  Won't  you  find  it  rather  dull?" 

"  What's  a  fellow  to  do?"  replied  her  cousin,  enigmatically. 
*'  1  suppose  Aunt  Catherine  will  not  undertake  the  care  of 
me?  1  am  too  big,  as  you  call  it,  for  a  house  full  of  women!" 

"  Well,  yes;  perhaps  you  are,"  she  replied,  contemplating 
him  thoughtfully.  "We  should  not  know  quite  what  to  do 
witliyou." 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  a  few  of  my  superfluous  inches," 
he  remarked,  dolorously;  "for  people  seem  to  find  me  sadly 
in  the  way  sometimes." 

But  Dulce  said,  kindly: 

"Oh,  no,  Harry;  we  never  find  you  in  the  way,  do  we, 
mammie?    We  should  be  dreadfully  dull  without  ;you  now. 


338  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

1  can  hear  you  whistling  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  and  it  aoundg 
so  cheerful.  If  there  were  only  a  house  big  enough  for  you 
next  door,  that  would  do  nicely."* 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  shall  not  be  far  off;  shall  I,  Aunt  Cath- 
erine?" for,  to  his  aunt's  utter  bewilderment,  he  had  estab- 
lished a  sort  of  confidence  between  them,  and  expected  her  to 
understand  all  his  vague  hints.  "  You  will  not  speak  about 
this  to  the  girls;  this  is  just  between  you  and  me,"  he  would 
say  to  her,  when  sometimes  she  had  not  a  notion  of  what  he 

meant. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Harry,"  she  said,  once.  '  Why 
did  you  stop  me  just  now  when  I  was  going  to  tell  Phillis  about 
the  ibbetsons  leaving  Glen  Cottage?  She  would  have  been  so 
interested. " 

"  You  must  keep  that  to  yourself  a  little  while.  Aunt  Cath- 
erine: it  will  be  such  a  surprise  to  the  girls,  you  know.  Did 
I  tell  you  about  the  new  conservatory  Ibbetson  has  built?  It 
leads  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  improves  the  room  won- 
derfully, they  say." 

"My  dear  Harry!  what  an  expense!  That  is  just  what 
Mr.  Mayne  wa^  always  wanting  us  to  do;  and  Nan  was  so 
fond  of  flowers.  It  was  just  what  the  room  needed  to  make 
it  perfect."  And  Mrs.  Challoner  folded  her  hands,  with  a 
sigh  at  the  remembrance  of  the  house  she  had  loved  so  dearly. 

"  They  say  Gilsbank  is  for  sale,"  remarked  her  nephew, 
rather  suddenly,  after  this. 

"  What!  Gilsbank,  where  old  Admiral  Hawkins  lived?  Nan 
saw  the  announcement  of  his  death  the  other  day,  and  she  said 
then  the  place  would  soon  be  put  up  for  sale.  Poor  old  man! 
He  was  a  martyr  to  gout." 

"I  had  a  look  at  it  the  other  day,"  he  replied,  coolly. 
"  Why,  it  is  not  a  hundred  yards  from  your  old  cottage. 
There  is  a  tidy  bit  of  land,  and  "the  house  is  not  so  bad,  only  it 
wants  doing  up;  but  the  furniture— that  is  for  sale  too — is 
very  old-fashioned  and  shabby." 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  it  for  yourself?"  asked  his  aunt,  in 
surprise.  "  Why,  Gilsbank  is  a  large  place;  it  would  never  do 
for  a  single  man.     You  would  find  the  rooms  Phillis  proposed 

far  handier." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Catherine!"  in  a  tone  of  strong  remon- 
strance. "  You  don't  mean  to  condemn  me  to  a  life  of  single 
blessedness  because  of  my  size?" 

"  Oh,  Harry,  of  course  not!     My  dear  boy,  what  w  idea!" 
"  And  some  one  may  be  found  in  time  who  could  put  up 
even  with  red  hair." 


IfOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS.  339 

"  Oh,  yes;  that  need  not  be  an  obstacle."  But  she  looked 
at  him  with  vague  alarm.     Of  whom  could  he  be  thinking? 

He  caught  her  expression,  and  threw  back  his  head  with  one 
of  his  merry  laughs: 

"  Oil,  no.  Aunt  Catherine;  you  need  not  be  afraid.  lam 
not  going  to  make  love  to  any  of  my  cousins;  1  know  your 
views  on  the  subject,  and  that  would  not  suit  my  book  at  all. 
1  am  quite  on  your  side  there," 

"  Surely  you  will  tell,  my  dear,  if  you  are  serious?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  when  1  have  anything  to  tell;  but  I  think  I  will 
have  a  good  look  round  first."  And  then,  of  his  own  accord, 
he  changed  the  subject.  He  was  a  little  sparing  of  his  hints 
after  that,  even  to  his  aunt. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  he  came  into  the  Friary  one 
evening  and  electrified  his  cousins  by  two  pieces  of  news.  He 
had  just  called  at  the  vicarage,  he  said;  but  he  had  not  gone 
in,  for  Miss  Mattie  had  run  down-stairs  in  a  great  bustle  to 
tell  him  her  sister  Grace  had  just  arrived.  Her  brother  had 
been  down  to  Leeds  and  brought  her  up  with  him.  Phiilis 
put  down  her  work;  her  face  had  become  suddenly  rather  pale. 

"  Grace  has  come,"  she  half  whispered  to  herself.  And 
then  she  added  aloud:  "  Poor  Mattie  will  be  glad,  and  sorry 
too!  She  will  like  to  have  her  sister  with  her  for  the  New 
Year;  but  in  a  few  weeks  she  will  have  to  pack  up  her  own 
things  and  go  home.  And  she  was  only  saying  the  other  day 
that  she  has  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life  as  she  has  been 
here." 

"  Why  can't  she  stay,  then?"  asked  Sir  Harry,  rather 
abruptly.  "  1  don't  hold  with  people  making  themselves  mis- 
erable for  nothing;  that  does  not  belong  to  my  creed." 

"  Oh,  poor  Mattie  has  not  a  choice  in  the  matter,"  returned 
Nan,  who  had  grown  very  fond  of  her  little  neighbor. 
"  Though  she  is  thirt}^  she  must  still  do  as  other  people  bid 
her.  They  can  not  both  be  spared  from  home — at  least,  1  be- 
lieve not — and  so  her  mother  has  recalled  her." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  nonsense!"  replied  Sir  Harry,  rather 
crossly  for  him.  "  Girls  are  spared  well  enough  when  they 
are  married.  And  1  thought  the  Drummonds  were  not  well 
off.     Did  not  Phiilis  tell  me  so?" 

"  They  are  very  badly  off;  but  then,  you  see,  Mr  .Drum- 
mond  does  not  want  two  sisters  to  take  care  of  his  house;  and, 
though  he  tries  to  be  good  to  Mattie,  he  is  not  so  fond  of  her 
as  he  is  of  his  sister  Grace;  and  they  have  always  planned  to 
live  tf>gether,  and  so  poor  Mattie  has  to  go." 

"  Yes,  and  I  must  say  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  little  worn- 


340  HOT    LIKE    OTHEfi    GIRLS. 

an/'  observed  Mrs.  Challoner.  "  There  is  a  large  family  ol 
girls  and  boys— I  think  Mr.  Drummond  told  us  lie  had  seven 
sisters— aud'^Mattie  seems  left  out  in  the  cold  among  them  all; 
they  laugh  at  her  OLldities,  and  quiz  her  most  unmercifully; 
even  Mr.  Drummond  does,  and  Nan  scolds  him  for  it;  but  he 
has  not  been  so  bad  lately.  It  is  rather  hard  that  none  of  them 
seems  to  want  her." 

"  You  forget  Grace  is  very  good  to  her,  mother,"  broke  in 
Phillis,  someVhat  eagerly.     "  Mattie  always  says  so." 

"  By  the  bye,  I  must  have  a  look  at  this  paragon.  Is  not. 
her  name  among  those  in  my  pocket-book!"  returned  her 
cousin,  wickedly.  "  1  saw  Miss  Sartoris  at  Old  field  that  day, 
and  she  was  too  grand  for  my  taste.  Why,  a  fellow  would 
never  dare  speak  to  her.  I  have  scored  that  one  off  the  list, 
Phillis." 

"  My  dears,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  Harry?" 

"  Ob,  nothing,  mainmie,"  returned  Dulce,  hastily,  fearing 
her  mother  would  be  shocked.  "  Phillis  was  ordy  in  her  non- 
sense mood;  but  Harry  is  such  a  goose,  and  will  take  things 
seriously.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  have  your  pocket-book  a 
moment,  and  I  would  tear  out  the  page."  But  Sir  Harry  re- 
turned it  safely  to  his  pocket. 

"  What  was  your  other  piece  of  news?"  asked  Nan,  in  her 
quiet  voice,  when  all  this  chatter  had  subsided. 

"  Oh,  I  had  almost  forgotten  it  myself!  only  Miss  Middleton 
charged  me  to  tell  you  that  '  son  Hammond  '  has  arrived  by 
the  P.  and  0.  steamer  the  '  Cerberus,'  and  that  she  and  her 
father  were  just  starting  for  Southampton  to  meet  him." 


CHAPTER  XLU. 

*'COME   NOW,    I  CALL  THAT  HARD." 

Phillis  was  unusually  silent  during  the  remainder  of  the 
evening;  but,  as  she  bade  Nan  good-night  at  the  door  of  her 
little  room,  she  lingered  a  moment,  shading  the  the  flame  of 
her  candle  with  her  hand. 

"  Do  you  think  Mattie  will  bring  her  sister  round  to  see  us 
to-morrow?"  she  asked,  in  a  very  low  tone. 

"  Oh,  ves— I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  returned  Nan,  sleepdy, 
not  noticing  the  restrained  eagerness  of  Phillis's  manner. 
"  We  can  hardly  call  first,  under  our  present  circumstances. 
Mr.  Drummond  knows  that."  And  Phillis  withdrew,  as 
though  she  were  satisfied  with  the  answer. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject;  and  they  settled 


irOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  341 

themselves  to  their  work  as  usual  on  the  following  morning, 
Dulce  chattering  and  singing  snatches  of  songs— for  she  was 
a  most  merry  little  soul — Nan  cheerful  and  ready  for  conver- 
sation with  any  one;  but  Phillis  withdrew  herself  to  the  fur- 
thest window  and  stitched  away  in  grave  silence.  And,  seeiug 
such  was  her  mood,  her  sisters  wisely  forbore  to  disturb  her. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  gate  bell  sounded,  and  Dulce,  who 
hailed  any  interruption  as  a  joyful  reprieve,  announced  de- 
lightedly that  Mattie  and  a  tall  young  lady  were  coming  up 
the  flagged  walk;  and  in  an  instant  Phillis's  work  lay  un- 
touched on  her  lap. 

"  Are  you  all  here?  Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  glad!''  exclaimed 
Mattie,  bustling  into  the  room  with  a  radiant  face.  "  1  have 
brought  Grace  to  see  you;  she  arrived  last  night.''  And  in  a 
moment  the  young  stranger  was  surrounded  and  welcomed 
most  cordially. 

Phillis  looked  at  her  curiously  for  a  moment:  in ileed,  dur- 
ing the  whole  visit  her  eyes  rested  upon  Grace's  face  from  time 
to  time,  as  though  she  were  studying  her.  She  had  heard  so 
much  of  this  girl  that  she  had  almost  feared  to  be  disappointed 
in  her;  but  every  moment  her  interest  increased. 

Grace  Drummond  was  not  a  pretty  girl — with  the  exception 
of  Isabel  and  the  boys,  the  Drummond  family  had  not  the 
slightest  pretension  to  beauty — but  she  was  fair  and  tranquil 
looking,  and  her  expression  was  gentle  and  full  of  character. 
She  had  very  soft,  clear  eyes,  with  a  trace  of  sadness  in  them; 
but  her  lips  were  thin — like  her  mother's — and  closed  firmly, 
and  the  chin  was  a  little  massively  cut  for  a  woman. 

In  looking  at  the  lower  part  of  this  girl's  face,  a  keen  ob- 
server would  read  the  tenacity  of  a  strong  will;  but  the  eyes 
had  the  appealing  softness  that  one  sees  in  some  dumb  creat- 
ures'. 

They  won  Phillis  at  once.  After  the  first  moment,  her 
reserved  manner  thawed  and  became  gracious;  and  before  half 
an  hour  had  passed  she  and  Grace  were  talking  as  though  they 
had  known  each  other  all  their  lives. 

Nan  watched  them  smilingly  as  she  chatted  with  Mattie: 
she  knew  her  sister  was  fastidious  in  her  likings,  and  that  she 
did  not  take  to  people  easily.  Phillis  was  pleasant  to  all  her 
friends  and  acquaintances:  but  she  was  rarely  intimate  with 
them,  as  Nan  and  Dulce  were  wont  to  be.  She  held  her  head 
a  little  high,  as  though  she  felt  her  own  superiority. 

"  Phillis  is  very  amusing  and  clever;  but  one  does  not  know 
her  as  well  as  Nan  and  Dulce/'  even  Carrie  Paine  had  been 


'612  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLg. 

heard  to  say;  and  certainly  Phillis  had  never  talked  to  Carrie 
as  she  did  to  this  stranger. 

Grace  was  just  as  much  charmed  on  her  side.  On  her  re- 
turn, she  delighted  and  yet  pained  her  brother  by  her  warm 
praises  of  his  favorites. 

"Oh,  Archie!'^  she  exclaimed,  as  they  sat  at  luncheon  in 
the  old  wainscoted  dining-room  at  the  vicarage,  "  you  are 
quite  right  in  saying  the  Chalionei's  are  not  like  any  other 
girls.  They  are  all  three  so  nice  and  pretty;  but  the  second 
— Miss  Phillis — is  most  to  my  taste." 

Archie  checked  an  involuntary  exclamation,  but  Mattie 
covered  it. 

"  Dear  me,  Grace !'^  she  observed,  innocently:  "  1  rather 
wonder  at  your  saying  that.  Nan  is  by  far  the  prettiest,  is 
she  not,  Archie?     Her  complexion  and  coloring  are  perfect." 

"  Oh,  yes!  If  you  are  talking  of  mere  looks,  I  can  not  dis- 
pute that,"  returned  Grace,  a  little  impatiently;  "  but  in  my 
opinion  there  is  far  more  in  her  sister's  face:  she  has  the  beauty 
of  expression,  which  is  far  higher  than  that  of  form  or  color- 
ing. I  should  say  she  has  far  more  character  than  either  of 
them." 

"  They  are  none  of  them  wanting  in  that,''  replied  Archie, 
breaking  up  his  bread  absently. 

"  JSTo,  that's  just  what  I  say:  they  are  perfectly  unlike 
other  girls.  They  are  so  fresh  and  simple  and  unconscious 
that  it  is  quite  a  pleasure  to  be  with  thbm;  but  if  I  were  to 
choose  a  friend  from  among  them  I  should  certainly  select 
Miss  Phillis."     And  to  this  her  brother  made  no  reply. 

"  They  are  all  so  pleased  about  Tuesday,*'  interrupted  Mat- 
tie,  at  this  point — "  Nan  was  so  interested  and  amused  about 
my  grand  tea-party,  as  she  called  it.  They  have  all  promised 
to  come,  only  Mrs.  Challouer's  cold  will  not  allow  her  to  go 
out  this  severe  weather.  And  then  we  met  Sir  Harry,  and  I 
introduced  him  to  Grace,  and  he  will  be  delighted  to  come  loo. 
I  wish  you  would  let  me  ask  Miss  Middletou  and  her  brother, 
Archie;  and  then  we  should  be  such  a  nice  little  party." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  absurd,  Mattie?"  returned  Archie, 
with  a  touch  of  his  old  irritability.  "  A  nice  confusion  you 
would  make,  if  you  were  left  to  arrange  things!  You  know 
the  colonel's  one  object  in  life  is  to  prevent  his  son  from  hav- 
ing any  intercourse  with  the  Challoners;  and  you  would  ask 
him  to  meet  them  the  first  evening  after  his  arrival  in  the 
place. " 

"  Is  the  father  so  narrow  in  his  prejudices  as  that?"  asked 
Grace,  who  had  quite  forgotten  her  own  shocked  feelings  when 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  343 

she  first  heard  that  Archie  was  visiting  a  family  of  dress- 
makers on  equal  terms. 

"  Oh.  dear!  I  forgot/'  sighed  Mattie,  taking  her  brother's 
blame  meekly,  as  usual.  "How  very  stupid  of  me!  But 
would  you  not  like  the  Cheynesor  the  Leslies  invited,  Archie.'^ 
Grace  ought  to  be  introduced  to  some  of  the  best  people." 

"  You  may  leave  Grace  to  me,"  returned  her  brother,  some- 
what haughtily;  "  I  will  take  care  of  her  introductions.  As 
for  your  tea-party,  Mattie,  I  shall  be  much  obliged  if  you  will 
keep  it  within  its  first  limits — just  the  Challoners  and  Sir 
Harry.  If  any  one  be  asked,  it  ought  to  be  Noel  Frere:  he 
has  rather  a  dull  time  of  it,  living  alone  in  lodgings  " — the 
Eev.  Noel  Frere  being  a  college  chum  of  Archie,  who  had 
come  down  to  Hadleigh  to  recruit  himself  by  a  month  or  two 
of  idleness.  "  Perha]3S  we  had  better  have  him,  as  there  will 
be  so  many  ladies. " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course!  He  is  so  nice  and  clever,"  observed 
Grace,  not  noticing  the  shade  on  Mattie's  face.  ' '  How  pleased 
you  must  be  to  have  him  staying  here  so  long,  Archie!  you 
two  were  always  such  friends." 

"  He  comes  nearly  every  evening,"  returned  Mattie,  dis- 
consolately. "  He  may  suit  you,  Grace,  because  you  are 
clever  yourself;  but  I  am  dreadfully  afraid  of  him,  he  is  so 
dry  and  sarcastic.  Must  he  really  be  asked  for  Tuesday, 
Archie?"  ^ 

"  Yes,  indeed:  you  ought  to  have  thought  of  him  first.  I 
am  sorry  for  your  bad  taste,  Mattie,  if  you  do  not  like  Frere: 
he  is  a  spendid  fellow,  though  terribly  delicate,  I  fear.  Now, 
Gracie,  if  we  have  finished  luncheon,  1  should  like  you  to  put 
on  your  wraps,  and  I  will  show  you  some  of  my  favorite 
haunts;  and  perhaps  we  shall  meet  Frere." 

Grace  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  thought  Archie  would 
have  included  Mattie  in  his  invitation;  but  ho  did  nothing  of 
the  kind,  and  she  knew  him  too  well  to  suggest  such  a  thing. 

"  Good-bye,  Mattie  dear.  I  hope  you  will  have  some  tea 
ready  for  us  when  we  come  back,"  she  said,  kissing  her  sister 
affectionately;  but  they  neither  of  them  noticed  the  pained 
wistfulness  of  Mattie's  look  as  the  door  closed  upon  them. 

They  were  going  out  without  her,  and  on  Grace's  first  day, 
too.  Archie  was  going  to  show  her  the  church,  and  the 
schools,  and  the  model  cottages  where  his  favorite  old  women 
lived — all  those  places  that  Mattie  had  visited  and  learned  to 
love  during  the  eight  months  she  had  lived  with  her  brother. 
In  a  few  weeks  she  must  say  good-b3'e  to  them  all,  and  go  back 
to  the  dull  old  house  at  Leeds,  to  be  scolded  by  her  mother 


344  NOT   LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

for  her  awkward  ways,  and  to  be  laughed  at  and  teased  by  her 
brothers  and  sisters.  Archie  was  bad  enough  sometimes,  but 
then  he  was  Archie,  and  had  a  right  to  his  bad  humors;  but 
with  the  boys  and  girls  it  was  less  endurable.  It  was,  "  Oh, 
you  stupid  old  Matt!  Of  course  it  was  all  your  fault;''  or, 
"  Mattie,  you  goose!"  from  Fred;  or,  "You  silly  child, 
Mattie!"  from  her  father,  who  found  her  a  less  amusing  com- 
panion than  Grace;  and  even  Dottie  would  say,  "  Oh,  it  is 
onlv  Mattie:  I  never  care  if  she  scolds  me." 

The  home  atmosphere  was  a  little  depressing,  Mattie 
thought,  with  a  sigh,  dearly  as  she  loved  her  young  torments. 
She  knew  she  would  find  it  somewhat  trying,  after  these  eight 
m.onths  of  comparative  freedom.  True,  Archie  had  snubbed 
her  and  kept  her  in  order;  but  one  tyrant  is  preferable  to 
many.  At  home  the  thirty-years' -old  Mattie  wa^  only  one  of 
the  many  daughters — the  old  maid  of  the  family — the  unat- 
tractive little  wall-flower  who  was  condemned  to  wither  un- 
noticed on  its  stalk.  Here,  in  her  brother's  vicarage,  she  had 
been  a  person  of  consequence,  whom  only  the  master  of  the 
house  presumed  to  snub. 

The  maids  liked  their  good-natured  mistress,  who  never 
found  fault  with  them,  and  who  was  so  bustling  and  clever  a 
little  housekeeper.  The  poor  people  and  the  school-children 
liked  Mattie,  too.  "  Our  Miss  Drummond,"  they  called  her 
for  a  long  time,  rather  to  Grace's  discomfiture.  "  Ah,  she  is 
a  rare  one,  when  a  body  is  low!"  as  old  Goody  Saunders  once 
said. 

And  Archie's  friends  respected  the  little  woman,  in  spite  of 
her  crudities  and  decidedly  odd  ways.  Miss  Middleton  and  the 
Challoners  were  quite  fond  of  her.  So  no  wonder  Mattie  grew 
low  at  the  thought  of  leaving  her  friends. 

Grace  had  come  to  take  her  place.  Nevertheless,  she  had 
welcomed  her  on  the  previous  evening  with  the  utmost  cheer- 
fulness and  unselfishness.  She  had  shown  her  the  house;  she 
had  introduced  her  to  the  Challoners;  she  had  overwhelmed 
her  with  a  thousand  little  attentions;  and  Grace  had  not  been 
ungrateful. 

"  I  am  afraid  this  is  hard  for  you,  Mattie,"  Grace  had  said 
to  hor,  as  the  sisters  were  unpacking,  late  the  previous  night. 
*'  I  ought  not  to  be  so  happy  to  come,  when  I  know  I  am  turn- 
ing you  out."  And  Mattie  had  winked  away  a  tear  and  an- 
swered, quite  cheerily: 

"Oh,  no,  Grace;  you  must  not  feel  that,  I  have  had  a 
pice  time,  and  enjoyed  myself  so  much  with  dear  Archie,  and 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  34^ 

now  it  is  your  tnrn;  and,  you  know',  he  has  ahrays  wanted  3^ou 
from  the  first." 

"Poor  dear  fellow!"  murmured  Grace;  "but  he  looks 
thin,  Mattie.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  here,  as  he  wants  me; 
but  I  shall  never  keep  his  house  as  beautifully  as  you  have 
done.  Mother  would  be  astonished  if  she  saw  it."  And  this 
piece  of  well-deserved  praise  went  far  to  console  Mattie  that 
night. 

But  she  began  to  feel  just  a  little  sore  at  breakfast-time. 
Once  or  twice  Archie  decidedly  ignored  her  and  turned  to 
Grace;  he  even  brought  her  his  gloves  to  mend,  though  Mat- 
tie  had  been  his  faithful  mender  all  these  months. 

"  Come  into  the  study,  and  we  will  have  a  talk,  Gracie,^* 
he  had  said,  and  as  Grace  had  involuntarily  waited  for  her  sis- 
ter to  accompany  them,  he  had  added,  hastily:  "  Oh,  Mattie 
is  always  busy  at  this  time  with  butchers  and  bakers! 
Come  along,  Grace;"  and,  though  Mattie  had  no  such  busi- 
ness on  her  hands,  she  dared  not  join  them. 

It  was  only  when  a  parish  meeting  called  the  young  vicar 
away  that  Mattie  bethought  herself  of  the  Challoners. 

Poor  Mattie!  Low  spirits  were  not  much  in  her  line.  She 
had  never  thought  enough  of  hei'self  to  indulge  in  the  luxury 
of  wounded  susceptibility — the  atmosphere  that  surrounded 
her  had  been  too  rough  and  bracing  for  that;  but,  neverthe- 
less, this  afternoon  she  longed  to  indulge  in  a  good  cry.  Hap- 
pily, however,  before  the  first  tear  had  begun  to  redden  her 
eyelids — indeed,  she  hardly  got  her  moutii  into  the  proper 
pucker — a  vigorous  pull  at  the  bell  warned  her  of  an  impend- 
ing visitor,  and  immediately  afterward  Sir  Harry  marched  into 
the  room,  looking  ruddier  than  ever  with  the  cold  air  and  ex- 
ercise, his  warm  coloring  kindling  a  glow  in  the  room. 

His  heavy  footsteps  shook  the  old  flooring  of  the  vicarage; 
but  as  he  greeted  Mattie  he  looked  round  him,  as  though  some- 
what surprised  to  find  her  alone. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Mattie?  Why,  what  have  you  done 
with  your  sister?"  he  asked,  in  rather  a  disappointed  tone. 
"  1  came  to  have  a  chat  with  you  both." 

Another  little  sting  for  Mattie :  he  had  only  come  to  see 
Grace. 

"  She  has  gone  out  with  Archie,"  she  returned,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice.     "  He  is  showing  her  the  church  and  the  schools. " 

"  I  was  up  at  the  Friary  just  now,"  he  said,  carelessly, 
"  and  they  were  all  talking  about  your  sister,  praising  her  up 
to  the  skies.  What  an  odd  capacity  women  have  for  falling 
in  love  with  each  other  at  first  sight!    Philiis  especially  seemed. 


346  K"OT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLg. 

very  far  gone.  So  1  told  them  I  would  just  come  and  have 
a  good  look  at  this  paragon.  One  can  not  judge  of  a  jDerson  in 
a  hat  and  veiJ.^^ 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  like  Grace,"  replied  Mattie,  reviving 
a  little  at  the  idea  of  her  sister^s  perfections.  "  She  is  not 
pretty,  exactly,  though  Archie  and  I  think  her  so;  but  she  is 
so  nice  and  clever.  Oh,  you  should  hear  those  two  talk!  it  is 
perfectly  wonderful  to  listen  to  them!" 

"  It  strikes  me  you  are  a  little  left  out  in  the  cold,  aren't 
you.  Miss  Mattie?"  asked  Sir  Harry,  with  one  of  his  shrewd, 
good-humored  looks.     "  Why  did  you  not  go  out  with  them?" 

"  Oh,  Archie  never  wants  me  when  he  has  Grace,"  answered 
Mattie,  with  a  sudden  pang  at  the  truthfulness  of  this  speech. 
"  They  have  always  been  so  much  to  each  other,  those  two." 

"  He  would  want  you  fast  enough  if  Miss  Grace — is  that 
not  her  name? — were  to  marry  and  leave  him  to  shift  for  him- 
self," was  the  somewhat  matter-of-fact  answer. 

But  Mattie  shook  hew  head  at  this  with  a  faint  smile: 

"  Grace  will  never  marry.     She  would  not  leave  Archie." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  nonsense,  do  you  know — sheer  nonsense! 
Many  girls  talk  like  that,  but  they  change  their  mind  in  the 
end.  Why,  the  parson  himself  may  marry.  You  don't  sup- 
pose a  good-looking  fellow  like  that  intends  to  be  an  old 
bachelor?     And  then  what  will  Miss  Grace  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.     1  am  afraid  she  will  miss  him  dreadfully." 

"  Oh,  but  she  will  get  over  it  all  right.  It  does  not  do  to 
make  a  fuss  over  that  sort  of  thing.  Sentimentality  between 
brothers  and  sisters  is  all  very  well  in  its  way,  but  it  won't  hold 
against  a  wife's  or  a  husband's  claims.  I  never  had  any  myself, 
so  1  don't  know;  but  I  find  it  precious  lonely  without  them. 
That  is  why  I  have  adopted  my  cousins.  A  man  must  care 
for  some  one." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  echoed  Mattie,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  am  afraid  your  j^eople  does  not  use  you  very  well.  Miss 
Mattie,"  he  went  on,  with  cheerful  sympathy  that  was  quite  a 
cordial  in  its  way.  "  You  look  a  bit  down  this  afternoon;  a 
fellow  would  call  it  the  blues,  and  he  would  be  thinking  of  a 
cigar  and  brandy  and  soda.  What  a  pity  women  don't 
smoke!  it  is  no  end  soothing  to  the  spirits!" 

"  We  have  got  afternoon  tea,"  returned  Mattie,  beginning 
to  smile  at  this. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  ring  and  order  some?"  he  replied, 
quite  seriously.  "  Do,'please,  Miss  Mattie,  it  it  will  put  a  little 
heart  into  you.  Why,  I  should  like  a  cup  myself  uncommonly. 
There  never  was  such  a  fellow  for  afternoon  tea."    And  then 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  347 

Mattie  did  ring  the  bell,  and,  Sir  HaiT}'  having  stirred,  the 
fire  into  a  cheerful  blaze,  and  the  little  brass  betile  beginning 
to  sing  cheerily  on  its  trivet,  things  soon  looked  more  com- 
fortable. 

"  Now  you  are  all  right,"  he  remarked,  presently.  "  You 
look  quite  a  different  sort  of  body  now.  When  1  first  came  in 
you  reminded  me  of  Cinderella  in  a  brown  dress,  sitting  all 
alone  by  a  very  black  fire.  I  do  believe  you  were  on  the 
verge  of  crying.  Nosv,  weren't  you,  Miss  Mattie?"  And 
MaLtie,  with  much  shame,  owned  to  the  impeachment. 

"  And  what  was  it  ail  about,  eh?"  he  asked,  with  such  a 
coaxing  peremptoriness  that  Mattie  confessed  that  she  was 
rather  dull  at  the  thought  that  nobody  wanted  her,  and  that 
she  must  go  home;  and,  on  being  further  pressed  and  ques- 
tioned, out  it  all  came — Mattie's  shortcomings,  her  stupid 
ways,  and  the  provocation  she  offered  to  home  criticism.  Sir 
Harry  listened  aud  laughed,  and  every  now  and  then  threw 
in  a  jesting  remark;  but  so  encouraging  was  his  manner  and 
so  evident  his  interest,  that  Mattie  found  herself  talking  as 
she  had  never  done  to  any  one  but  Miss  Middlcton.  Before 
she  had  finished.  Sir  Harry  knew  all  about  the  household  in 
Lowder  Street,  and  had  formed  a  tolerable  estimate  of  every 
member  of  the  family:  the  depressed  father;  the  careworn 
and  somewhat  stern  mother;  the  boys,  clever  and  handsome 
and  flippant;  the  girls  in  all  stages  of  awkwardness;  and  the 
quiet,  talented  Grace,  who  was  every  one's  right  hand,  and 
who  had  come  to  the  vicarage  to  dispossess  Mattie. 

"  Come,  now,  I  call  that  hard;  I  do,  upon  ray  word!"  he 
repeated  more  than  once  at  the  end  of  Mattie's  little  narrative. 
*'  Women  have  a  lot  put  up  m  them.  I  dare  say  if  I  had  had 
sisters  I  should  have  bullied  them  sometimes.  Men  are  awful 
tyrants,  aren't  they.  Miss  Mattie?" 

Mattie  took  this  literally. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  woidd  be  a  tyrant,  Sir  Harry,"  she 
returned,  simply,  and  then  wondered  why  he  suddenly  col- 
ored up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  knowing,"  he  replied,  in  an  embarrassed 
tone.  "  I  have  never  had  any  one  to  bully.  I  think  I  shall  try 
my  hand  on  Dulce,  only  the  is  such  a  little  spitfire.  Well,  1 
must  be  going,"  he  went  on,  straightening  himself.  "  By  the 
bye,  1  shuil  not  see  you  again  until  Tuet^day;  1  have  to  run 
over  to  Old  field  about  a  lot  of  business  1  have  in  hand.  Do 
you  know  Oldfield?" 

"Oh,  no;  but  Kan  and  Phillis  have  described  it  so  oft^Ji 
that  I  seem  as  though  I  had  been  tiiere,'^ 


348  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  It  is  a  iiiceish  place,  and  I  am  half  inclined  to  settle  there 
myself;  there  is  a  house  going  that  would  just  suit  me.''* 

Mattie's  face  lengthened:  she  did  not  like  the  idea  of  losing 
Sir  Harry;  he  had  been  so  good-natured  and  kind  to  her. 

"  One  would  never  see  you  if  you  lived  at  Oldfield,"  she 
gaid,  a  little  sorrowfully;  and  again  Sir  Harry  looked  embar- 
rassed. 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  be  at  Leeds,  so  it  won't  make  much 
difference.  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  parted  from  Aunt 
Catherine  and  the  girls:  there  is  a  great  deal  to  arrange.  Per- 
haps, before  you  go,  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  that  thiiigs  are 
settled.  Anyhow,  good-bye  till  Tuesday."  And  then  he  nod- 
ded to  her  in  a  friendly  way,  and  Mattie  returned  to  her  fire- 
place refreshed  and  comforted. 

Archie  and  Grace  came  in  presently,  bringing  another 
current  of  cold  air  with  them.  They  both  looked  bright  and 
happy,  as  though  they  had  enjoyed  their  walk.  Grace's  pale 
cheeks  had  the  loveliest  tinge  in  them„ 

"  Have  we  left  you  too  long  alone,  Mattie  dear?"  she  asked, 
as  she  took  the  cup  of  tea  offered  her.  "  How  cozy  this  dear 
old  room  looks!  and  what  a  beautiful  fire!" 

"  Sir  Harry  has  been  emptying  the  coal-scuttle!"  laughed 
Mattie.  "  What  a  pity  you  missed  him,  Grace!  he  has  been 
so  amusing  " 

Grace  smiled  incredulously: 

"  What,  that  great  big  Sir  Harry  Challoner  whom  you  in- 
troduced this  morning!  My  dear  Mattie,  I  am  sure  he  could 
never  be  amusing.  I  was  not  greatly  prepossessed  with  him." 

"  Mattie's  geese  are  all  swans.  I  don't  think  much  of  him 
myself,"  broke  in  Archie,  in  a  satirical  voice.  "  I  like  qual- 
ity better  than  quantity.  He  is  so  big,  I  am  sure  his  brains 
must  suffer  by  comparison.     Now,  there  is  Frere." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  met  Mr.  Frere!"  interrupted  Grace,  eagerly; 
"and  Archie  and  he  had  such  a  talk;  it  was  delightful  only 
to  listen  to  it.  I  liked  his  ideas  on  ecclesiastical  architecture, 
Archie."  And  then  followed  an  animated  discussion  between 
the  sister  and  brother  about  a  book  of  Euskin's  that  they  had 
both  been  reading.  Mattie  tried  to  follow  them,  but  she  had 
not  read  Ruskin,  and  they  soon  left  her  miles  behind;  indeed, 
after  the  first  few  minutes  they  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her 
existence;  but  somehow  Mattie  did  not  feel  so  forlorn  as  usual. 

"  Come,  now,  I  call  that  hard,"  a  sympathizing  voice 
seemed  to  say  in  her  ear.  Sir  Harry's  genial  presence,  his 
blunt,  kindly  speeches,  had  done  Mattie  good;  he  had  called 
feer  Cinderella,  and  made  the    fire  blaze  for  her,  and  ha4 


NOT    LIKE    OTHEE    GlilLS.  3i9 

coaxed  her  in  quite  a  brotherly  manner  to  tell  him  her  little 
troubles,  and  Mattie  felt  very  grateful  to  him. 

So  she  s(;ai'ed  into  the  fire  wistful  and  happy,  while  the 
others  talked  over  her  head,  and  quite  started  when  she  heard 
her  own  name. 

"  We  are  forgetting  Mattie;  all  this  must  be  so  dull  for 
her/'  Grace  was  saying,  as  she  touched  her  shoulder  caress- 
ingly. "  Come  upstairs  with  me,  dear:  we  can  have  a  chat 
while  we  get  ready  for  dinner.  You  must  not  let  your  friends 
make  themselves  so  much  at  home,  you  extravagant  child,  for 
your  fire  is  far  too  large  for  comfort;"  but  Mattie  turned  away 
from  it  reluctantly  as  she  followed  her  sister  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

*'  I  WILL  WRITE  NO   SUCH   LETTER." 

The  new  year  had  not  opened  very  auspiciously  at  Long- 
mead,  neither  had  the  Christmas  festivities  been  great. 

Dick  on  his  first  return  had  put  on  a  great  appearance  of 
cheerfulness,  and  had  carried  himself  much  as  usual;  but  Mr. 
Mayne  had  been  glum,  decidedly  glum,  and  Mrs.  Mayue  had 
found  it  difficult  to  adjust  the  balance  of  her  sympathy  be- 
tween Dick's  voluble  quicksilver  on  the  one  hand,  and  her 
husband's  dead  v/eight  of  ill  humor  on  the  other. 

The  truth  was,  Mr.  Mayne's  sharp  eyes  had  discerned  from 
the  first  moment  of  his  sou's  entrance  into  the  house  that 
there  was  no  change  in  his  purpose. 

To  an  outsider,  Dick's  behavior  to  his  father  was  as  nice  as 
possible.  He  still  kept  up  his  old  jokes,  rallying  him  on  his 
matutinal  activity,  and  saying  a  word  about  the  "early 
worm"— "so  bad  for  the  worm,  poor  beggar,"  observed 
Dick.  And  he  sauntered  after  him  into  the  poultry-yard,  and 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  some  Spanish  fowls  that  had  been 
lately  imported  into  Longmead,  and  that  were  great  sources 
of  pride  to  Mr.  Mayne. 

Dick  paid  a  great  deal  of  dutiful  attention  to  his  father's 
hobbies:  he  put  on  his  thickest  boots  every  day  after  luncheon, 
that  his  father  might  enjoy  the  long  walks  in  which  he  de- 
lighted. Dick  used  to  sally  forth  whistling  to  his  dogs  when 
they  went  down  Sandy  Lane;  he  was  careful  to  pause  where 
the  four  roads  met,  that  Mr.  Mayne  might  enjoy  his  favorite 
view.  In  all  these  things  Dick's  behavior  was  perfect.  Nev- 
ertheless, on  their  return  from  one  of  these  walks  they  each 
had  a  secret  grievance  to  pour  into  Mrs,  Mayne's  ear. 


350  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Dick's  turn  would  come  first. 

"  Mother,"  he  would  say,  as  he  lounsfecl  into  the  room  wliere 
she  sat  knitting  by  the  fire-light  and  thinking  of  her  boy— 
lor  just  now  slie  was  heart  and  soul  on  Dick's  side — and  full 
of  yearning  for  the  sweet  girl  whom  he  wanted  for  his  wife, 
"  I  don't  know  how  long  this  sort  of  thing  is  going  on,  but  I 
don't  think  I  can  put  up  with  it  much  longer." 

"Have  you  not  had  a  nice  walk  with  your  father?"  she 
asked,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  yes;  the  walk  was  well  enough.  We  had  some  trou- 
ble with  Vigo,  though,  for  he  startled  a  pheasant  in  Lord 
Fitzroy's  preserve,  and  then  he  bolted  after  a  hare.  1  had 
quite  a  difficulty  in  getting  him  to  heel." 

"  These  walks  do  your  father  so  much  good,  Dick." 

"  That  is  what  you  always  say;  but  1  do  not  think  I  can 
stand  many  more  of  them.  He  will  talk  of  everything  but 
the  one  subject,  and  that  he  avoids  like  poison.  I  shall  have 
to  bring  him  to  book  directly,  and  then  there  will  be  no  end  of  a 
row.  It  is  not  the  row  I  mind,"  continued  Dick,  rather  rue- 
fully, "  but  I  hate  putting  him  out  and  seeing  him  cut  up 
rough.  If  he  would  only  be  sensible  and  give  me  ray  way  in 
this,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  please  him.  You 
must  talk  to  him;  you  must  indeed,  mother."  And  then 
Mrs.  Mayne,  with  a  sinking  heart,  promised  that  she  would  do 
what  she  could. 

And  after  that  it  would  be  her  husband's  turn. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Bessie;  I  am  not  satisfied  about  that 
boy,"  he  remarked,  once,  as  he  came  in  to  warm  his  hands 
before  going  upstairs  to  dress  for  dinner.  "  1  don't  know 
from  whom  he  gets  his  obstinacy — not  from  either  of  us,  1  am 
sure  of  that— but  his  cheerfulness  does  not  deceive  me.  He 
means  mischief;  I  can  see  that  plainly." 

"Oh,  Eichard!  And  Dick  has  been  so  nice  to  3^ou  ever 
since  he  came  home.  Why,  he  has  not  once  asked  to  have 
any  of  his  friends  down  to  stay.  And  before  this  he  was  never 
content  unless  we  filled  the  house.  He  takes  walks  with  you, 
and  is  as  domesticated  and  quiet  as  possible;  so  different  from 
other  young  fellows,  who  are  always  racketing  about." 

"That  is  just  what  bothers  me,"  returned  her  husband, 
crossly.  "  You  have  no  discernment,  Bessie,  or  you  would 
know  what  I  mean.  1  should  not  care  a  straw  if  Dick  were 
to  cram  the  house  with  young  fellows:  that  sort  of  larking  is 
just  natural  at  his  age.  AV'hy,  he  quite  pooh-poohed  the  idea 
of  a  dinner-party  the  other  night,  though  1  planned  it  for  his 


ifOf    LIKE    OTHER    GlftLS.  35l 

pleasure.     His  mind  is  set  on  other  things,  and  that  is  why  I 
asky  he  is  up  to  mischief.'' 

Mrs.  Mayne  sighed  as  she  smoothed  down  her  satin  dress  with 
her  plump  white  hands,  but  she  could  not  gainsay  the  truth 
of  ibis  speech:  his  father  was  right — Dick's  miud  was  set  on 
other  things. 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  him  talk  to  you,*'  she  began,  timidly, 
remembering  her  promise.  "  Do,  my  dear;  for  I  am  sure 
Dick  is  very  much  in  earnest." 

"  So  am  I  "very  much  in  earnest,"  he  returned,  wrathfully; 
and  his  small  eyes  grew  bright  and  irritable.  "  No,  it  is  no 
use  your  looking  at  me  in  that  way,  Bessie.  I  am  determined 
not  to  allow  tha:  boy  to  ruin  his  prospec  s  for  life.  He  will 
thank  me  one  day  for  being  firm;  and  so  will  you,  though  you 
do  turn  against  your  own  husband.'* 

This  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Mayne's  affectionate  nature  to 
bear. 

"  Oh,  Richard,  how  can  you  talk  so?  and  I  have  been  a  good 
wife  to  you  all  these  years!"  And  here  the  poor  woman  be- 
gan to  sob.  "  You  might  make  allowance  for  a  mother's  feel- 
ings; he  is  ray  boy  as  well  as  yours,  and  1  would  cut  off  my 
right  hand  to  make  him  happy;  and  I  do — I  do  think  3'ou  are 
very  hard  upon  him  about  Kan." 

Mr.  Mayne  stared  at  her  in  speechless  amazement.  Bessie, 
his  long-suffering  Bessie— the  wife  of  his  bosom,  over  whom 
he  had  a  right  to  tyrannize—even  she  had  turned  against  him, 
and  had  taken  his  son's  part.  "  Et  tu,  Brute!"  he  could 
have  said,  in  his  bitterness;  but  his  wrath  was  too  great. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  rising  from  the  seat  that  was 
no  longer  restful  to  him,  and  pointing  his  finger  at  her,  "  you 
and  your  boy  together  will  be  the  death  of  me." 

"  Oh,  Richard,  how  can  you  be  so  wicked?'* 

"  Oh,  I  am  wicked,  am  I?     That  is  a  nice  wifely  speech." 

"Yes,  you  are  when  you  say  such  things  to  me!"  she  re- 
turned, plucking  up  spirit  that  amazed  herself  afterward.  "  If 
you  do  not  know  when  you  have  a  good  wife  and  son,  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  I  say  again,  I  think  you  are  making  a  griev- 
ous mistake,  Richard.  Dick's  heart  is  set  on  the  girl;  and  I 
don't  wonder  at  it,  a  dear,  pretty  creature  like  that.  And  if 
you  cross  him,  and  set  him  wrong,  you  will  have  to  answer  to 
both  of  us  for  the  consequences."  And  then  she,  too,  rose, 
trembling  in  every  limb,  and  with  her  comely  face  very  much 
flusht'd.  Even  a  worm  will  turn,  and  Bessie  Mayne  for  once 
ventured,  to  speak  the  truth  to  her  husband. 

She  had  the  victory  that  night,  for  he  was  too  much  dunt 


S52  NOT    LIKE    OTHEtl    GlELS. 

founded  by  her  rebellion  to  indulge  in  his  usual  recrimina- 
tions: he  had  never  imagined  before  that  Bessie  owned  a  will 
of  her  own;  but  he  felt  now,  with  a  pang  of  wounded  self- 
love,  that  the  younger  Eiuhard  had  proved  a  formidable  rival. 

His  wife's  heart  relented  when  she  saw  his  moody  looks; 
but  he  would  not  be  reconciled  to  her,  in  spite  of  her  coaxing 
speeches. 

"  Come,  Eichard — come,  my  dear!  you  must  not  be  so  cross 
with  me,"  she  said  to  him  later  on  that  night.  "  We  have 
been  married  three-and-twenty  years,  and  have  never  had  a 
serious  quarrel;  and  1  don't  like  your  black  looks  at  me." 

"  Then  you  should  not  anger  me  by  taking  that  boy's 
part,"  was  his  only  answer;  and  he  could  not  be  induced  to 
say  anything  more  conciliatory.  And  the  poor  woman  went 
to  bed  weeping. 

Things  were  in  this  uncomfortable  state  when,  one  morn- 
ing, Dick  thrust  his  head  into  the  study  whore  his  father  was 
jotting  down  some  household  accounts;  for  he  managed  all 
such  minor  details  himself,  much  to  his  wife's  relief. 

"  Are  you  particularly  busy,  father?  I  want  to  talk  with 
you." 

Mr.  Mayne  looked  up  quickly,  and  his  bushy  eyebrows  drew 
together. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  am,  Dick — most  particularly  busy  just  now;" 
for  there  was  a  look  on  his  sou's  face  that  made  him  feel  dis- 
inclined for  conversation. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  then;  I  can  leave  it  until  after  luncheon, 
was  the  cheerful  response;  then  Mr.  Mayne  knew  that  Dick 
was  determined  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

They  went  out  after  luncheon,  taking  the  dogs  with  them, 
and  turning  their  steps  in  the  direction  of  Sandy  Lane.  For 
the  first  mile,  Dick  said  very  little;  he  had  his  eye  on  Vigo, 
who  seemed  to  be  inclined  to  bolt.  But  wheri  they  had  reached 
the  second  mile-stone,  he  cleared  his  throat,  and  then  Mr. 
Mayne  knew  that  his  trouble  was  begjinning.' 

"  Well,  father,"  commenced  Dick,  "  I  think  it  is  about 
time  we  had  a  little  serious  talk  together  about  my  future 
plans.  Of  course  1  want  to  know  if  I  am  to  go  down  next 
terra," 

"  I  don't  see  that  we  need  discuss  that.  You  will  read  for 
your  degree,  of  course." 

Mr.  Mayne  spoke  fast  and  nervously,  but  Dick  was  quite 
cool — at  least,  outwardly  so. 

"  There  is  no  '  of  course  '  in  the  matter.  1  can  only  read 
for  my  degree  on  one  couditiou." 


1 


}f 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  353 

'*  Aud  what  is  that,  may  1  ask?"  with  rising  choler  iu  his 
Toice. 

"  That  you  will  have  Nan  down  to  Longmead,  and  that  you 
and  my  mother  sanction  our  engagement." 

"  Xl-vpt,  sir,  never!"  iu  a  vehement  tone. 

"  Please  don't  excite  yourself,  father.  1  think  it  is  1  who 
ought  to  be  excited;  but,  you  see,  I  am  quite  cool — perfectly 
so.  I  am  far  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  otherwise.  When  a 
man's  future  prospects  are  at  stake,  and  Ills  own  father  seems 
determined  to'thwart  him,  it  is  time  to  summon  up  all  one's 
energies.  I  hope  you  are  not  serious  iu  what  you  say — that 
you  do  absolutely  refuse  to  sanctiou  my  engagement  with 
Nan?" 

"  There  is  no  engagement.  If  there  were,  1  do  absolutely 
refuse;  nay,  more,  J  am  determined  actively  to  oppose  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  have  not  changed  your  mind;  for 
it  makes  all  the  difference  to  me,  I  assure  you.  Very  well; 
then  I  must  go  in  for  a  city  life." 

"  Do  you  threaten  me,  sir?'^ 

"  No,' father,  I  would  not  be  so  undutiful;  but  it  is  a  pity 
your  throwing  all  that  money  away  on  my  education  if  I  am 
not  to  complete  it.  If  I  had  taken  a  good  degree,  I  might 
have  turned  out  something;  but,  never  mind — it  cau't;  be 
helped  now.  Then  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  write  a  letter 
of  introduction  to  Slansfield  &  Stansfield?" 

"No,  sir;  I  will  write  no  such  letter!"  thundered  Mr. 
Mayne;  and  Dick  put  his  hands  in  his  pocket  and  whistled. 
He  felt  himself  losing  patience;  but,  as  he  said  afterward,  his 
father  was  in  sucn  an  awful  rage  that  it  was  necessary  for  one 
of  them  to  keep  cool.  So,  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  he  said, 
(juite  plf'asantly: 

"  Well,  if  you  will  not,  you  will  not.  We  may  take  a  horse 
to  the  water,  but  we  can't  make  him  drink.  Aud  the  time 
has  not  come  yet  for  a  son  to  order  his  own  father,  though  we 
■vre  pretty  well  advanced  now.^' 

"  I  think  we  are,  Dick.'* 

"  I  confess  1  am  rather  disappointed  at  not  getting  that  let- 
ter. Mr.  Stansfield  would  have  attached  some  importance  to 
it;  but  1  dare  say  I  shall  get  on  with  the  old  boy  without  it. 
1  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  shall  accept  anything  he  likes  to 
offer  me — even  if  it  be  only  a  clerkship  at  eighty  pounds  a 
year.  After  all,  I  am  not  worse  off  than  you  were  at  my  age. 
You  began  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  sol  need  not  grumble. " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  demanded  his  father,  in  a  tone  of 
grief,  "  that  you  really  intend  to  throw  me  over,  and  not  only 


354  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

me,  but  all  you  advantages,  your  prospects  in  life,  for  the  sake 
of  this  girl?" 

"  I  think  it  is  you  who  are  throwing  me  over,*'  returned 
hJs  son,  candidly.  "  Put  yourself  in  my  place.  When  you 
were  a  young  man,  father,  would  you  have  given  up  my  moth- 
er if  my  grandfather  had  wished  you  to  do  so!"' 

"  The  cases  are  different— altogether  different,"  was  the 
angry  response.  "  I  never  would  have  married  a  dress- 
maker." 

"  There  are  dress-makers  and  dress-makers:  but  at  least  my 
fiancee  is  a  gentlewoman,"  returned  his  son,  hotly. 

Dick  meant  nothing  by  this  speech  more  than  his  words 
implied:  he  was  far  too  good-natured  for  an  arriere-pensee. 
But  his  father  chose  to  consider  himself  insulted. 

"  You  insolent  young  fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  fuming.  "  Do 
you  mean  your  mother  was  not  as  good  as  Miss  Nancy,  any 
day?  I  never  did  believe  in  those  Challoners — never,  in  spite 
of  the  mother's  airs.  I  tell  you  what,  Dick,  you  are  treat- 
ing me  shamefully;  after  all  the  money  I  have  wasted  on  you, 
to  turn  on  me  in  this  way  and  talk  about  the  city.  I  wash 
my  hands  of  you,  sir.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  intro- 
ductions: you  may  go  your  way,  but  you  will  never  see  a  penny 
of  my  money."  And  he  walked  on  with  a  very  black  look 
indeed. 

"  All  right,"  returned  Dick.  But  he  was  not  quite  so  cool 
now.  "  Thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  for  me,  and  for  let- 
tinsr  me  know  your  future  intentions.  I  am  thinking  it  is  a 
good  thing  Nan  has  learned  her  business,  for,  as  we  shall  be 
tolerably  poor,  it  will  be  handy  for  her  to  make  her  own 
gowns." 

''Very  well,  Dick." 

"  I  shall  go  up  to  Mr.  Stansfield  to-morrow;  and  the  day 
after  I  suppose  I  had  better  write  to  the  dean.  You  may  not 
believe  me,  father  " — and  here  Dick's  lip  quivered  for  the  first 
time — "  but  1  am  awfully  sorry  to  cross  you  in  this  way;  but 
my  heart  is  so  set  on  Nan  that  1  could  not  possibly  bring  my- 
self to  live  without  her."  But  to  this  Mr.  Mayne  made  no 
reply,  and  they  walked  the  remainder  of  the  way  iu  silence. 

Mrs.  Mayne's  heart  grew  sick  with  apprehensio.i  when  she 
saw  their  faces  at  dinner. 

Dick  looked  decidedly  cross.  To  do  him  Justice,  the  poor 
fellow  was  thoroughly  miserable;  but  his  aspect  was  cheerful 
compared  to  that  of  her  husband. 

Mr.  Mayne  would  not  speak,  neither  would  he  eat.  And 
even  the  footman^  who  took  away  the  uutasted  viands,  looked 


KOT    LiKt;    OTHER    GIRLS.  35S 

at  his  master  with  fear  and  trembling,  his  countenance  was  so 
gloomy. 

Dick  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  father's  failure  of  appetite; 
but  Mrs.  Mayue  was  one  of  those  women  who  are  gjven  to 
fancy  that  if  a  man  refuse  his  diimer  there  is  something  seri- 
ous the  matter  with  him.  And  as  the  meal  proceeded  she  cast 
piteous  looks  at  her  son,  but  Dick  totally  ignored  them. 

As  soon  as  the  servants  had  handed  round  the  fruit  and 
had  left  the  room,  Mr.  Mayne  rose  from  the  table,  leaving  his 
claret  uiitasted,  and  shut  himself  into  the  library,  first  banging 
the  door  behind  him,  a  sound  that  made  his  wife's  heart  pal- 
pitate. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  what  has  happened  to  your  father?'*  she  asked, 
turning  to  her  boy  for  comfort.  But  Dick  was  unusually 
sulky,  and  refused  to  answer. 

"  You  had  better  ask  him,  mother,  if  you  are  anxious  to 
know,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  he  very  seldom  used  to  her. 
"  As  for  me,  1  am  so  sick  of  the  whole  thing,  and  feel  myself 
so  badly  used,  that  1  would  rather  not  open  my  lips  on  the 
subject." 

Then  Mrs.  Mayne  sighed,  for  she  knew  Dick  had  one  of  his 
obstinate  fits  on  him,  and  that  there  would  be  no  further  word 
spoken  by  him  that  night. 

Poor  woman!  She  knew  it  was  her  duty  to  go  into  the 
library  and  speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  her  husband.  It  might 
be  that  Diok  had  been  contumacious  and  had  angered  his  fa- 
ther; and  it  miglit  be  her  task  to  pour  in  the  balm  of  sympa- 
thy. Even  if  he  had  been  hard  on  her  boy,  she  must  not 
forget  that  he  was  her  husband. 

But  as  she  opened  the  door  she  forgot  her  doubts  in  a  mo- 
ment. Mr.  Mayne's  face  was  so  pale,  despite  its  blackness, 
that  she  was  moved  to  instant  pity. 

"Oh,  Richard,  what  is  it?"  she  said,  hurrying  to  him. 
"  My  dear,  you  must  not  take  it  to  heart  in  this  way."  And 
she  took  his  forehead  between  her  hands  and  kissed  it  with  the 
old  tenderness  she  had  once  felt  for  him,  when  they,  too,  had 
lived  and  worked  for  each  other,  and  there  was  no  Master 
Dick  to  plague  them  and  rule  over  his  mother's  heart. 

"Bessie,  that  boy  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  he  groaned. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  despondency  of  these  words,  the 
comfort  of  his  wife's  presence  was  visi[)]y  felt,  and  by  and  by 
he  suHered  her  to  coax  the  truth  from  him. 


§56  NOT    LIKE    OtnT:ll    GTRtg. 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

MR.    MATNE   ORDERS  A  BASIN   OF  GRUEL. 

On  the  followiug  morjiiug  Mr.  Maj'ne  did  opeu  his  lips  to 
address  a  word  to  his  son: 

"  I  shall  be  obh'ged  to  you,  Dick,  if  you  will  postpone  your 
intended  visit  to  town,  f  jr  this  day  at  least;"  for  Dick  had 
an  "ABC  "  beside  him,  and  was  picking  out  a  fast  train 
while  he  eat  his  breakfast. 

"All  right,"  replied  Dick:  "1  can  wait  another  four-and- 
twenty  hours.'*  But,  though  he  yielded  the  point  graciously 
enough,  he  did  not  look  at  his  father  or  say  anything  more 
on  the  subject;  and  as  soon  as  his  appetite  was  satisfied,  he 
took  up  the  "  'limes  "  and  lounged  into  his  den.  Shortly  after- 
ward they  heard  him  whistling  to  his  dogs,  and  knew  that  he 
would  not  appear  until  luncheon. 

Mrs.  Mayne  wished  that  her  husband  would  follow  his  ex- 
ample; but  he  had  put  on  his  slippers,  and  showed  no  inclina- 
tion to  leave  the  fireside.  He  read  his  paper  and  dozed  a  good 
deal,  and  snapped  up  Bessie  if  she  spoke  to  him:  so,  on  the 
whole,  Mrs.  Mayne  had  rather  a  dull  morning.  When  the 
luncheon-bell  rang,  he  chose  to  put  on  invalid  airs,  and  ordered 
a  basin  of  gruel  to  brought  to  him  in  the  library.  Mrs. 
Mayne,  who  knew  he  was  not  ill,  and  that  his  indisposition 
was  purely  mental  and  imaginary,  was  yet  wise  enough  to  fall 
in  with  his  whim. 

"  Your  master  would  take  his  gruel  nicely  flavored, 
James,"  she  said  to  the  footman.  "  Please  ask  Mrs.  Simp- 
kins  to  prepare  it  in  the  way  he  likes."  And  then  she  jjlaced 
his  favorite  little  table  beside  him,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a 
more  cheerful  blaze. 

"  Your  father  does  not  feel  himself  well  enough  to  come  in 
to  luncheon,  Dick,"  she  said  to  her  son,  probably  for  the 
benefit  of  the  servant,  who  was  waiting  to  remove  the  covers; 
and  Dick,  for  the  same  reason,  testified  a  proper  amount  of 
sympathy. 

"  He  takes  too  long  walks  for  a  man  of  his  age,*'  he  said, 
applying  himself  vigorously  to  the  dismembernient  of  a  chicken. 

Mother,  I  will  trouble' you  for  some  of  that  game-pie." 
And  then  he  told  her  another  anecdote  about  Vigo. 

After  luncheon  Dick  again  disappeared,  and  Mrs.  Mayne, 
who  dreaded  an  afternoon's  tete-a-tcte  with  her  husband  in  his 
present  mood,  went  up  to  her  own  room,  for  some  feminine 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  357 

business,  or  to  take  a  nap.  Mr.  Mayne,  a  little  mollified  by 
the  gruel,  wliioli  had  been  flavored  exactly  to  his  liking  with 
&,■  sou  peon  of  rum,  was  just  composing  himself  for  another 
doze  when  he  was  roused  by  the  loud  pealing  of  the  hall  bell, 
and  the  nest  moment  the  door  was  flung  open  by  James,  and. 
Sir  Henry  Challoner  was  announced. 

It  was  a  dark,  wintery  afternoon,  and  the  library  was  some- 
what somber:  the  fire  had  died  down,  owing  to  Mr.  Mayne's 
drowsiness.  In  the  dim  light  Sir  Harry's  big,  burly  figuro 
looked  almost  gigantic.  Mr.  Mayne,  with  his  little  lean 
shoulders  and  sharp  face,  looked  beside  him  much  as  a  small 
greyhound  would  beside  a  mastiff. 

"  How  do  you  do?"  began  Sir  Harry,  in  his  loud  voice. 
*'  I  must  apologize  for  my  intrusion;  but  1  think  my  name  is 
well  known  to  you,  and  needs  no  introduction.  I  have  often 
heard  of  Mr.  Mayne,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  returned  that  gentleman, 
stiffly;  and  he  glanced  at  the  card  in  his  hand.  There  it  was, 
"  Sir  Henry  Challoner."  "  But  what  the—"  And  here  his 
favorite  expletive  rose  to  his  lips. 

"  "We  can  scarcely  see  each  other's  faces,"  observed  Sir 
Harry,  cheerfully.  "  Will  you  allow  me  to  take  the  liberty, 
though  I  have  not  known  you  for  seven  years — and  hardly  for 
seven  minutes!"  And  then  he  seized  the  poker  and  broke 
up  an  obstinate  piece  of  coal. 

"  Actually,  in  my  own  house,  and  before  my  own  eyes,"  as 
Mr.  Mayne  told  his  wife  afterward. 

"  There,  now!  I  have  made  a  glorious  blaze.  These  are 
first-rate  coals.  Now  we  can  have  our  talk  comfortably  to- 
gether. You  do  not  know  me  personally,  but  I  dare  say  you 
have  heard  of  my  father — Sir  Francis  Challoner?  Poor  old 
fellow!  1  am  afraid  too  many  people  heard  of  him  in  his 
time." 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  it  is  hardly  becoming  of  me  to  pay  to  his 
son,  I  have  never  heard  much  good  of  him.  if  I  remember 
rightly,  he  did  poor  Challoner  a  bad  turn  once." 

"Hush,  my  good  friend!"  And  Sir  Harry's  ruddy  face 
looked  a  little  disturbed.  "  T  thought  no  one  but  myself  and 
Aunt  Catherine  knew  that  story.  It  is  rather  hard  on  a  man 
to  have  this  sort  of  thing  brought  up.  And  the  poor  old  gov- 
ernor is  dead  now:  so,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  observe,  by- 
gones had  better  be  by-gones  on  that  subject." 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,  Sir  Harry;  but  you  introduced  the  mat- 
ter yourself." 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Mayne,"  rather  haughtily,   "I  iutro- 


S68  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

duced  mvself.  I  am  the  son  of  Sir  Francis.  "Well,  if  you 
know  sj  much,  you  will  understand  the  sort  of  interest  I  take 
in  my  cousms,  and  how  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  make  up  to 
them  for  what  they  have  lost." 

"  Very  proper,  I  am  sure.'* 

"  As  to  that,  duty  is  a  pleasure.  They  are  such  awfully 
jolly  girls,  and  so  uncommonly  plucky,  that  1  am  as  proud  of 
them  as  though  they  were  my  own  sisters.  Nan  is  so  con- 
foundedly pretty,  too.  I  don't  wonder  at  your  son's  taste. 
He  must  be  a  lucky  fellow  who  gets  Nan." 

"Sir!"  vociferated  Mr.  Mayne;  and  Sir  Harry  immediately 
changed  his  tactics. 

"  That  is  a  tidy  place  opposite  you — Gilsbank,  I  mean.  I 
have  been  over  there  settling  about  the  purihasse.  I  am 
afraid  Cranford  is  rather  a  screw;  he  wanted  to  drive  too  close 
a  bargain.  But  I  said,  '  No;  you  shall  have  your  money 
down,  right  and  tight,  but  not  a  farthing  over.'  And  I  ni- 
sisted  on  my  right  to  change  the  name  if  I  like.  I  have  half 
a  mind  to  call  it  '  Challoner  Place.'  " 

Mr.  Mayne  was  wide  awake  now;  his  astonishments  knew 
no  bounds. 

"  You  are  going  to  buy  Gilsbank?" 

"  I  have  bought  it,"  was  the  cool  response;  "  and  I  am 
now  in  treaty  for  Glen  Cottage.  My  aunt  has  a  fancy  for  her 
old  home;  and,  though  it  is  not  much  of  a  place,  it  is  big 
enough  for  her  and  the  girls;  and  Ibbetson  has  done  a  good 
deal  to  improve  it.  You  look  surprised,  Mr.  Mayne;  but  I 
sup()ose  a  man  must  live  somewhere!" 

"  Of  course  it  is  none  of  my  business,  but  I  thought  Sir 
Francis  was  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse.  Mrs.  Challoner  was 
my  informant,  and  she  always  led  me  to  suppose  so." 

"  She  was  peifectly  right.  The  poor  old  man  never  could 
keep  money  in  his  pocket;  it  always  seemed  to  slip  through 
his  fingers.  But  that  is  not  my  case.  I  have  been  a  lucky 
fellow  all  my  life.  1  roughed  it  a  bit  in  the  colonies  at  first, 
but  it  did  me  no  harm.  And  then  we  made  a  splendid  hit 
out  in  Sydney — coined  money,  in  fact.  I  would  not  like  to 
tell  you  what  I  male  in  one  year:  it  seems  blovvijig  one's 
trumpet,  somehow.  But  I  soon  got  sick  of  making  it;  and 
here  I  am,  with  a  tidy  fortune — plenty  for  myself,  and  enough 
to  eet  up  my  aunt  and  the  girls  comfortably  without  feeling 
the  loss.  And  now,  Mr.  Mayne,  when  they  are  back  at  Glen 
Cottnge,  ]  want  to  know  what  you  will  do  about  your  son." 

To  d'l  Mr.  Mayne  justice,  he  was  far  too  perplexed  to  an- 
swer oli'-hund;  in  fact,  he  was  almost  rendered  dumb  by  ex- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  359 

cessive  astouisliment.  To  borrow  his  own  forcible  expression, 
used  to  his  wife  afterward,  "he  hardly  kuew  where  he  was, 
things  were  so  topsy-tnrvy." 

In  the  old  days,  before  Dick  had  produced  that  wonderful 
mustache  that  was  so  long  iu  growing,  Mr.  Mayue  had  been 
very  partial  to  his  neighbors  at  Glen  Cottage.  It  is  always 
pleasant  to  a  man  to  |)atronize  and  befriend  a  pretty  woman, 
and  Mrs.  Chal loner  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  woman.  It 
was  quite  an  Decussation  to  a  busy  man  like  the  master  of 
Longmead  to  superinteud  their  garden  and  give  his  advice  on 
all  subjects  that  belong  to  a  man's  province. 

But  for  the  last  year,  since  Dick  had  so  greatly  developed  in 
mental  culture,  his  faiher  had  been  grop  ing  very  weary  even 
of  the  name  of  Challoner;  it  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to 
decry  them  on  every  possible  occasion.  "  AVhat  is  in  a  name?" 
he  would  say,  when  some  person  would  lament  the  dead-aud- 
gone  gloi-ios  of  Challor)er  Place.  "  Tliere  is  not  a  soul  belong- 
ing to  them,  except  that  disreputable  Sir  Francis;  and  he  is  as 
good  as  a  beggar. " 

But  since  Glen  Cottage  had  given  way  to  the  Friary,  and 
the  dress-making  scheme  had  been  carried  out,  his  opposition 
had  become  perfectly  frantic:  he  could  have  sworn  at  Dick  for 
his  senselessness,  his  want  of  pride,  his  lamentable  deficiency 
in  ambition.  "  Never,  as  long  as  my  name  is  Richard  Mayne, 
w?ll  1  give  in  to  that  boy,"  he  had  vowed  inwardl3\ 

And  now  there  had  suddenly  started  up,  like  a  piece  of  gilded 
clap-trap,  this  amazing  man  of  inches,  calling  himself  their 
cousin,  Sir  Henry  Challoner;  a  man  who  was  absolutely  tired 
of  making  money — who  called  Gilsbank,  afar  finer  house  than 
Longmead,  a  tidy  little  place,  and  who  could  throw  in  Glen 
Cottage,  that  bijou  residence,  as  a  sort  of  dower-house  for 
widowed  Clialloners;  a  man  who  would  soon  be  talked  about 
in  Hadleigh,  not  because  he  was  rich — most  of  the  Hadleigh 
families  were  rich — but  because  he  was  restoring  an  ancient 
name  to  something  of  its  old  respectability. 

Mr.  Mayne  was  essentially  a  shrewd,  far-sighted  man.  Like 
other  self-made  men,  he  attached  great  importance  to  good 
blood.  In  a  moment  he  realized  that  Kan  Challoner  of  the 
IViary  was  a  very  different  person  from  Nan  Challoner  of 
Glen  Cottage,  the  cousin  of  Sir  Henry  Challoner.  Under  the 
latter  circumstances  she  would  be  received  on  equal  terms  at 
Fitzroy  Lodge,  and  at  the  other  houses  of  the  aristocracy.  In 
marrying  her,  Dick  would  be  at  once  on  an  intimate  footing 
with  those  very  people  who  only  just  tolerated  his  father. 

"  Well,"   observed    Sir    Harry,   after    a    lengthy    pause. 


(( 


860  KOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS. 

"  what  do  you  say  about  the  matter,  eh?  Though  I  have  ac 
cumulated  a  pretty  sum  of  money,  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  ^ 
millionaire;  and  of  course,  as  1  may  settle  down  some  day  and 
have  a  family  of  my  own,  I  mudt  not  treat  my  cousins  as 
though  they  were  my  sisters.  1  think  of  allowing  my  aunt  a 
sufficient  inciome  during  her  life-time  to  keep  up  Glen  Cottage, 
and  I  do  not  mind  paying  the  girls  three  thousand  pounds 
down  on  their  wedding-day,  just  for  pin-money;  but  more 
than  that  can  not  be  expe"ted  of  me." 

"Of  course  not,"'  returned  Mr.  Mayne,  and  then  he  hesi- 
tated. Three  thousand  pounds  was  not  much  of  a  fortune. 
Why,  the  girl  he  wanted  for  Dick  had  fifteen  thousand,  at; 
least;  but,  then,  Dick  would  not  look  at  her;  ami  even  three 
thousand  was  better  than  nothing.  *'I  had  hoped  better 
things  for  my  son,''  he  went  on,  stiffly.  "  I  always  meant 
Dick  to  marry  money." 

"  Oh,  true,  money  is  very  good  in  its  way;  but  then,  you 
see,  young  fellows  are  not  always  to  be  coerced.  1  believe 
there  is  a  very  strong  attachment  between  your  son  and  my 
cousin  Nan." 

"  It  has  caused  me  a  great  deal  of  vexation,"  replied  Mr. 
Mayne,  very  testily — all  the  more  that  his  resolution  was 
wavering,  "  1  de  not  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings.  Sir  Henry, 
but  this  confounded  dress-making  of  theirs — "  But  here  Sir 
Harry  stopped  him  by  a  most  extraordinary  facial  contraction, 
which  most  certainly  resembled  a  wink. 

"  Hush!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  very  loud  whisper.  '*  It  does 
not  matter  to  me,  of  course;  but  if  I  were  you,  I  would  not 
mention  this  little  fact  to  any  one  else.  Girls  are  girls,  and 
they  will  have  their  fling.  A  good  steady  husband,  that  is 
what  they  want,  the  best  of  them,  to  sober  them  when  the 
right  time  comes.  1  mean  to  put  a  stop  to  this  nonsense;  but, 
after  all,  a  little  bit  of  larking  like  that,  with  a  lot  of  high- 
spirited,  generous  creatures,  what  does  it  matter  in  the  long 
run?  You  just  settle  things  with  me  off-hand,  and  I  will 
come  to  terms  with  the  young  ladies.  I  am  the  head  of  the 
family,  as  they  know."  And  Sir  Harry  threw  out  bis  big 
chest  with  a  sudden  movement  of  importance  and  pride. 
'*  1  am  the  head  of  the  family:  they  will  be  pleased  to  remem- 
ber that,"  he  repeated,  pompously. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment,  when  victory  lay  within  hia 
grasp,  that  Dick  sauntered  lazily  into  the  room. 

Dick  was  in  an  execrable  humor:  he  was  tired  and  worried, 
and  his  boots  were  muddy.  And  what  was  the  use  of  being 
still  contumacious,  unless  his  obstinacy  were  to  be  a  spectaclQ 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  361 

to  men  and  gods — unless  he  were  to  flaunt  his  ill  humor  in  the 
face  of  his  tyrant,  and  make  his  father's  soul  wretched  within 
him?  Such  is  youthful  reasoning,  that  hates  to  veil  its  feelings 
unobserved. 

Dick  had  not  perceived  Sir  Harry's  card,  so  he  stared  at  the 
intruder  a  little  coolly.  Sir  Harry  returned  his  look  with  a 
glance  of  mingled  surprise  and  amusement. 

"Is  this  the  young  gentleman  in  question?'*  he  asked  in 
a  tone  that  roused  Dick's  ire.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  a 
little  disappointed  by  Nan's  choice.  It  was  not  so  much 
Dick's  want  of  good  looks,  but  in  Sir  Harry's  eyes  he  appeared 
somewhat  insignificant;  and  then  a  scowl  is  not  always  becom- 
ing to  a  face.  Dick's  bright,  gonial  expression  was  wanting; 
he  looked  a  little  too  like  his  father  at  this  moment  fur  Sir 
Harry's  taste. 

"  JDo  you  mean  me?"  observed  Dick  in  a  magnificent 
tone.  '*  Is  it  1  who  am  the  young  gentleman  in  question? — 
Father,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  introduce  me  to  this 
gentleman  with  whom  you  have  been  talking  me  over?"  And 
Dick  twirled  his  mustache  angrily. 

Mr.  Mayne  looked  at  his  son's  moody  face,  and  his  feelings 
underwent  a  sudden  revulsion;  but  before  he  could  speak  Sir 
Harry  stepped  in  nimbly  before  him: 

"  Well,  now,  I  like  spirit:  no  one  cares  to  be  talked  over 
behind  one's  back.  Supposing  we  shake  hands,  you  and  1,  as 
we  are  to  be  so  nearly  related.  1  am  Nan's  guardian,  her 
next  of  kin — Sir  Harry  Challoner,  at  your  service;  and  Nan 
sends  her  love,  and  you  are  a  lucky  fellow,  that  is  what  you 
are!"  exclaimed  Sir  Harry,  genially,  as  he  struck  Dick  a 
sounding  blow  on  his  shoulder.  But  Dick  did  not  wince; 
and,  though  the  diamond  ring  cut  into  his  hand  as  they  ex- 
changed that  grasp,  no  expression  "of  pain  crossed  his  face, 
which  became  all  at  once  quite  radiant. 

Sir  Harry  hailed  the  metamorphosis  with  delight.  Here  was 
the  real  Dick  emerging  like  a  young  sun-god  from  the  clouds. 

*'  Come,  that  is  first  rate;  I  like  the  look  of  you  better 
now,"  he  said,  with  an  appreciative  nod. 

"  Father,  what  does  this  mean?"  faltered  Dick. 

"  It  means,"  growled  Mr.  Mayne,  for  he  could  not  get 
quite  amiable  all  at  once,  though  his  heart  was  lightening  in 
his  bosom — "  it  means  that  I  am  an  old  fool,  Dick,  and  that 
you  are  a  young  one." 

"  No,  father — not  really — does  it?"  And  Dick  beamed  still 


more 


And  ifc  means  that  you  are  not  to  plague  me  any  mord 


36^  Not    LIKE    OTHER    Gluts. 

about  the  city.  But,  there!  though  you  have  behaved  sO 
badly  to  me,  Dick,  1  forgive  you.  Sir  Henry  and  1  have  been 
talking  over  things,  and  if  you  will  work  hard  for  your  degree 
your  mother  shall  ask  the  girl  down  here,  and  we  will  see 
about  it,  and  that  is  all  I  can  say  at  present.  And  so  we  may 
as  well  shake  hands  upon  it  too." 

But  Dick  did  more  than  that;  he  threw  his  arm  over  his 
father's  shoulder  with  a  movement  that  was  almost  caressing. 

"  Thank  you,  pater;  you  are  a  brick  and  no  mistake!"  was 
all  the  undemonstrative  Briton's  tongue  could  say.  But  Mr. 
Mayne,  as  he  looked  in  his  boy's  face  and  felt  that  pressure  on 
his  shoulder,  thought  them  sufficiently  eloquent. 

"  Thei'e!  get  along  with  yr u,  and  have  it  out  with  your 
mother,"  he  growled.  But,  in  spite  of  his  surly  tone,  Mr. 
Mayne  felt  an  amount  of  relief  that  astonished  himself:  to  see 
Dick's  face  happy  again,  to  have  no  cloud  between  them,  to 
know  that  no  domestic  discord  would  harass  his  soul  and  ren- 
der gruel  necessary  to  his  well-being,  was  restoring  him  to  his 
old  self  again.  Sir  Harry  longed  to  throw  back  his  head  and 
indulge  in  a  good  laugh  as  he  witnessed  this  little  scene  of 
reconciliation. 

Mrs.  Mayne,  who  was  sitting  somewhat  sadly  by  her  own 
fireside,  thinking  over  that  day's  discomfort,  was  quite  taken 
aback  by  hearing  Dick  coming  upstairs  in  his  old  way,  three 
steps  at  a  time,  and  then  bursting  into  the  room  after  a  hasty 
knock  at  the  door. 

"  Mother,"  he  cried,  breathlessly,  "  Sir  Harry  Challouer  is 
in  the  library — and  pater  wants  you  to  come  down  and  give 
them  some  tea — and  Sir  Henry  is  going  to  stop  to  dinner — 
and  the  woodcock  is  to  be  cooked — and  you  are  to  get  the  best 
room  ready.  But  first  of  all— like  the  dear,  darling  mother 
you  are — you  are  to  sit  down  and  write  a  letter  to  Nan." 

But  the  letter  was  not  written  then;  for  how  could  Bessie 
keep  her  husband  and  his  guest  waiting  for  their  tea  after  such 
an  urgent  message?  And  had  she  not  first  of  all  to  listen  to 
Dick's  incoherent  story,  which  she  heard  better  from  Sir  Harry 
afterward,  who  took  great  pains  to  explain  it  to  the  poor, 
bewildered  woman? 

Mr.  Mayne  thought  he  had  never  seen  Bessie  look  so  hand- 
some since  the  days  he  courted  her,  as  she  sat  smiling  at  the 
head  of  the  table  in  her  velvet  gown.  And  Sir  Harry,  too, 
was  quite  charmed  with  the  soft,  comely  creature. 

Later  on,  while  the  two  elder  gentlemen  were  chatting  con- 
fidentially over  their  cigars  and  whisky  and  water,  she  did 
manage  to  write  a  few  lines  to  Nan.     But  it  was  not  much  of 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  363 

ft  letter;  for  how  was  she  to  construct  a  decent  sentence  with 
that  torment,  Diet,  hanging  over  the  back  of  her  chair  and  in- 
terrupting her  every  moment?  Bat  Xan  was  not  ill  pleased  by 
the  missive  when  she  received  it. 

"  My  own  dear  girl,'*  it  said — "  my  dearest  girl — for  no 
daughter  could  ever  be  so  dear  to  me  as  you  will  be,  Xan,  for 
my  boy's  sake,  and  because  he  loves  you  so."  ('  You  are  right 
there,  mother!"  struck  in  Dick,  in  a  tjne  of  ecstasy. )  "  Evei-)^- 
thing  has  come  right,  through  cSir  Henry's  intercession  and 
my  Richard's  goodness."  ("  HumphI"  coughed  Dick. 
"  Well,  it  is  not  for  the  like  of  me  to  contradict  you  ") 

"You  are  to  come  to  us — at  once — at  once  " — undeiliiied 
— *'  for  Dick  will  be  going  back  to  Oxford,  si  there  is  n'>  time 
to  lose;  and  you  have  not  got  any  good  of  your  engagt  ment 
yet."  ("  Only  just  at  that  last  moment,"  muttered  her  son 
at  this.) 

"  My  precious  bov  looks  so  happv  that  I  could  cry  with 
joy  to  see  him."  ("  Oh,  shut  up,  mother!  Nun  knows  all 
that.")  "  And  his  dear  fa! her  looks  as  pleased  as  possible, 
and  sends  his  love."  (''  He  did  indeed,  Dick,"  a?  an  inciea- 
ulous  sound  broke  from  his  lips),  "  and  he  sa3^s  bv-gones  are 
by-gMies.  And  you  are  on  no  account  to  feel  yourself  awk- 
ward as  regards  him,  for  of  course  Dick's  fiancee  "  ("  Are 
you  sure  that  is  spelled  right,  Dick?")  "  will  bring  her  owa 
welcome.  U  not  that  a  sweet  speech  for  my  Riiha  -d  to  say? 
So  you  will  come,  my  dear,  will  you  not?  And  I  remain, 
just  what  I  always  was,  my  Nan's  loving  friend, 
"         -  "Bessik  Mayne." 

And  then  the  letter  was  carefully  consigned  to  Dick's  pocket, 
and  iu  due  course  q|  time  was  dehvered  into  Nan's  fair  hands. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

AN    UNINVITED   GUEST. 

During  the  next  few  days  Grace  and  Pbillis  made  great 
strides  toward  intimacy;  and,  as  though  some  magnetic  in- 
fluence attracted  each  to  each,  they  were  tp  be  found  con- 
stantly together.  Neither  of  them  was  a  girl  to  .mdu  ge  in 
gushing  sentimentality;  but  Grace,  svhose  refined,  intellectual 
nature  had  hitherto  met  with  no  response  except  from  her 
brother,  perceived  at  once  Phillis's  innate  superiority  aim  clear, 
aenerous  temperament.  For  the  first  time  she  fe  t  feminine 
"Irieudship  a  possibility,  and  hailed  it  as  a  new-found  joy. 


364  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIKLS.  ^ 

Nan  testified  her  pleasure  on  more  than  one  occasion;  jealousy 
never  found  a  resting-place  in  a  corner  of  her  heart. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Phiilis/'  she  observed,  once,  "  that  you 
and  Grace  Drummoud  like  each  other  so  much.  You  hare 
never  found  any  girl  equal  to  you  yet;  and  I  was  always  too 
stupid  to  give  you  what  you  wanted." 

"  Oh,  Nannie,  as  though  I  would  change  you  for  a  dozen 
Grace  Drummouds!'*  returned  Phillis,  stanch  as  ever  to  her 
domestic  creed,  that  there  never  was  and  never  could  be  such 
another  as  Nan. 

"  Oh,  of  course  we  shall  always  be  the  same  to  each  other, 
you  and  1,"  returned  Nan,  seriously;  "  we  are  such  old  com- 
rades, Phil;  but,  then,  1  have  Dick,  and  it  is  only  fair  you 
should  have  some  one  too;"  but  she  did  not  understand  why 
Phillis  suddenly  sighed  and  turned  away. 

An  amusing  little  incident  happened  to  Phillis  after  this, 
which  she  greatly  enjoyed.  Colonel  Middleton's  avo  dance  of 
them  had  long  been  a  sore  point  with  her,  as  it  was  with  Dulce. 

*'  I  feel  almost  like  that  wicked  Haman,"  she  said,  once, 
in  a  serio-comic  voice,  "  and  as  if  he  were  my  Mordecai.  I 
shall  never  think  we  have  achieved  perfect  success  until  1  have 
forced  him  to  shake  hands  with  me."  But  Nan,  who  cared 
very  little  about  such  things,  only  laughed. 

On  Sunday  moruing  Colonel  Middleton  marched  up  the  aisle 
rather  more  pompously  than  usual,  and  there  followed  him  a 
tall,  very  solemn-faced  young  man,  with  serious  eyes  that 
reminded  them  of  Elizabeth. 

"  Son  Hammond,''"  whispered  Phillis,  who  was  not  always 
as  devout  as  she  ought  to  be;  and  Dulce  tried  hard  to  compose 
her  dimples. 

Possibly  the  young  officer  was  not  as  solemn  as  his  looks, 
for  he  certainly  paid  more  attention  to  the  opposite  pews  than 
he  did  to  his  prayer-book;  and  as  he  walked  home  with  his 
sister,  Colonel  Middleton  being  just  then  out  of  ear-shot,  he 
quest! !)ned  her  rather  closely  on  the  subject: 

"  Who  were  those  girls,  Elizabeth?  I  mean  the  three  who 
were  just  opposite  us  with  their  mother.  Are  they  visitors  or 
residents?"  Then  Elizaeth  told  him  very  briefly  their  name 
and  occupation. 

"  Good  gracious!"  he  returned,  in  a  thunder-struck  tone; 
and  then  ail  at  once  he  burst  out  laughing,  as  though  at  a 
good  joke. 

"  I  call  that  a  piece  of  splendid  pluck.  Do  you  know  I 
could  see  in  a  moment  there  was  something  out  of  the  com- 
mon about  them?    They  are  all  very  pretty — at  least  good- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS  363 

looking— and  I  liked  tlieir  quiet  style  of  dress.     You  must  iu- 
trodiice  me  to-morrow/* 

"  My  dear  Hammond,  I  can  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  re- 
turned Elizabeth,  pc'ancing  round  in  an  alarmed  way.  "  Fa- 
ther has  refused  to  have  them  at  Brooklyn;  and  it  would  annoy 
him  terribly  if  you  were  to  take  any  notice  of  them."  But 
to  this  Hammond  turned  a  deaf  ear,  and,  though  he  forbore 
to  question  her  any  further  on  that  occasion,  he  had  fully  made 
up  his  mind  that  the  iutroductiou  should  take  place  as  soon  as 
possible. 

As  it  fell  out,  accident  favored  him  the  very  next  day;  for, 
as  he  was  calling  with  his  sister  at  the  White  House,  who 
saould  be  announced  the  next  minute  but  the  Misses  Challoner 
— Phillis  and  Dulce,  who  had  been  bidden  to  afternoon  tea! 

Mrs.  Cheyne  kissed  and  welcomed  them  both.  Then  Cap- 
tain Middleton  was  introduced,  and  they  were  soon  chatting 
merrily  together,  to  Elizabeth's  secret  amusement. 

Captain  Middleton  made  himself  very  agreeable  to  the  two 
girls,  as  Dulce  observed  afterward.  She  had  never  before  been 
BO  deceived  in  a  man's  appearance — for  he  was  not  solemn  at 
all;  and,  though  the  serious  brown  eyes  certainly  inspected 
them  rather  criiically  from  time  to  time,  he  proved  himself  a 
Iright,  amusing  c  mpanion,  and  fully  bore  out  his  father's  and 
sister's  encomiums. 

The  Middletons  were  easily  induced  to  prolong  their  visit. 
Elizabeth  felt  herself  a  traitor  to  her  father,  but  she  could 
not  refuse  Hammond's  imploring  glance.  And  so  they  stayed, 
and  all  took  their  leave  together. 

Mr.  Cheyne  walked  down  to  the  gate  with  them.  He  had 
an  errand  in  the  town,  and  he  and  Elizabeth  walked  behind 
the  young  people,  talking  them  over  in  a  low  voice. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Colonel  Middleton  was  trudging 
down  the  Braid  wood  Road;  and  as  he  neared  the  White  House 
he  looked  up,  and  there  was  his  son  walking  contentedly  with 
a  Challoner  girl  on  either  side  of  him,  and  the  three  were 
laughing  merrily. 

It  was  Dulce  who  saw  him  first. 

"There  comes  your  father!"  she  said;  and  she  began  to 
blush  as  she  had  done  on  the  day  when  he  had  left  her  at  the 
gate  of  Brooklyn,  talking  to  Elizabeth. 

Hammond  proved  himself  quite  worthy  of  the  occasion. 

"  Well  met,  father,"  he  called  out,  cheerily.  "  We  seem 
all  going  one  way.  I  suppose  no  one  needs  any  introduction? 
Of  course  you  know  my  father.  Miss  Challoner?" 

Then  the  colonel  threw  down  his  arms.     He  bad  fought 


366  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

very  bravely  on  his  soirs  behalf;  but,  after  all  his  labors,  his 
bristling  defenses  ahd  skillful  retreats,  Hammond  had  of  his 
own  free  will  delivered  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  Philis- 
tines. What  was  the  use  of  guarding  an  empty  citadel?  His 
treasure  was  already  in  the  enemy's  grasp. 

All  this  was  written  on  the  colonel's  lugubrious  face  as  he  ^ 
bowed  stiffly  and  walked  in  sorrowful  silence  beside  them,  shak-  j 
ing  his  white  head  at  intervals;  but  no  one  but  Dulce  took  auy/ 
notice  of  his  somber  mood. 

Dulce  was  very  timid  by  nature.  She  was  the  least  out-/ 
spoken  of  the  three,  and  always  kept  in  the  background,  like 
a  modest  little  flower  that  loved  the  shade;  but  she  was  verj 
soft-hearted,  and  had  great  regard  for  people's  feelings.  Anc 
the  old  man's  downcast  looks  pained  her;  for  how  was  she  tc 
know  that  he  was  Sfcretly  pleased  at  this  meetiog? 

"  1  hope — I  wish — you  did  not  mind  knowing  us  so  much. 
Bat  it  has  not  been  our  fault  this  afternoon,"  sighed  Dulce, 
stammering  and  blusliing  over  her  words,  "  You  will  believe 
that,  will  you  not,  C,<lonel  Middleton?" 

If  a  cannon-shot  had  been  fired  into  the  old  warrior's  ear, 
he  could  hardly  have  started  more  than  he  did  at  these  child- 
ish words.  He  looked  rouud.  There  was  the  little  girl,  look- 
ing up  at  him  with  the  innocent  eyes  he  remembered  so  well, 
and  her  mouth  puckered  a  little  as  though  she  wanted  to  cry. 

This  was  more  than  any  man  could  bear,  even  if  he  had  a 
harder  heart  than  Colonel  Middleton. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  taking  the  little  hand,  "  I  have  always 
wanted  to  know  you;  Elizabeth  will  tell  you  that.  I  lost  my 
heart  to  your  sisters  the  first  day  I  saw  them.  I  am  sure  we 
shall  be  good  fiiends  in  time,  if  you  will  forgive  an  old  man's 
pride."  And  then  he  patted  her  hand  as  though  she  had  been 
an  infant. 

When  Mr.  Drummond  sat  down  to  dinner  that  evening  he 
astonished  Mattie  very  much  by  saying: 

"  You  can  ask  the  Middletons,  after  all,  for  your  tea-party, 
if  you  like,  Mattie.  What  wonderful  sight  do  you  think  I  saw 
just  now?  Why,  the  colonel  himself  coming  out  from  the 
Friary,  and  all  the  three  girls  were  round  him,  chattering 
as  thinigh  they  had  known  him  all  their  life;  and  1  am  pretty 
sure  that,  in  spite  of  the  dark,  I  saw  '  son  Hammond  '  behind 
him."  And  Mattie,  glad  of  the  permission,  gave  the  invita- 
tion the  next  day. 

Mattie  grevv  a  little  alarmed  as  the  evening  approached. 
It  was  her  first  party,  and  she  knew  Archie  would  be  critical; 
but  Grace  proved  herself  a  uialid  i:!ij. 


NO*    LiKt:    OTHER    GIKLS.  *  SBt 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  in  the  background  and  leave 
Mattie  in  her  position  as  mistress  of  her  brother's  house,  she 
felt  herself  becoming  insensibly  its  presiding  spirit. 

Archie  was  tolerabl^^  good-natured  to  Mattie,  but  the  habits 
of  a  life-time  were  too  strong  for  him,  and  he  still  snubbed 
and  repressed  her  at  intervals.  Mattie  felt  herself  of  no  im- 
portance now  that  Grace  had  come;  her  duties  were  usurped 
before  her  eyes.  Archie  made  afresh  demand  on  her  forbear- 
ance every  day. 

"  Why  can  not  you  keep  to  the  housekeeping,  and  let  Grace 
lo  the  schools  and  visi tings?"  he  said,  once.     "  It  must  come 

0  her  by  and  by,  when  you  are  gone;  and  I  want  her  to  begin 
is  soon  as  possible.  It  will  not  do  to  let  her  think  she  has  come 
DO  soon,"  implying  that  good  taste  should  lead  Mattie  to  re- 
agu  of  her  own  account. 

Poor  Mattie!  she  had  many  a  good  cry  in  secret  before  that 
[^uesday.  She  could  hardly  help  feeling  pained  to  see  how  all 
n  all  those  two  were  to  each  other,  and  the  glad  eagerness 
Trace  threw  into  her  work,  knowing  the  reward  of  commend- 
ition  she  would  reap.  "  It  must  be  so  strange  never  to  be 
nubbed  or  scolded— to  do  everything  right,"  Mattie  thought. 

Grace  felt  very  sorry  for  her,  and  petted  her  a  good  deal. 
Che  dark  little  face  had  always  a  pained  wistfulness  on  it  now 
that  touched  her.  She  spoke  kindly  of  Mattie  to  her  brother 
on  all  possible  occasions. 

"  I  think  Mattie  is  so  generous  in  giving  up  to  me  as  she 
does,"  she  observed,  as  Archie  joined  her  in  the  drawing-room 
in  expectation  of  their  guests.  Mattie  had  not  yet  made  her 
appearance.  She  had  been  lighting  the  wax  candlesand  trim- 
mi  i)g  a  refractory  lamp  that  refused  to  burn,  and  had  just 
run  past  her  brother  with  blackened  fingers  and  hot,  tired 
face. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  is  good  enough,"  he  returned,  indifferently, 
as  he  straightetied  a  crooked  candle;  "  but  I  wish  she  would 
not  always  be  late.  She  has  not  begun  to  dress,  and  it  is  the 
time  we  appointed  for  the  Challoners  to  come.  Of  all 
things  I  hate  unpunctuality  and  fuss,  and  Mattie  is  always  so 
fussy." 

Grace's  conscience  pricked  her.  "  I  am  afraid  1  left  her 
too  much  to  do,"  she  said,  penitently.  "  Phillis  asked  me  to 
go  for  a  walk  with  them;  but  I  ought  not  to  have  left  her. 

1  will  go  and  help  her  now." 
But  Archie  objected: 

"  No,  no;  let  her  be.  You  must  not  leave  me  alone  to  re- 
ceive them.     How  nice  you  look  in  that  cream-colored  dress. 


368  '  jjrOt    LIKE    OTflER    GtRL§. 

Grace!  1  thought  it  would  suit  yon."  But,  though  hia 
eyes  rested  on  her  as  he  spoke,  he  seemed  rather  absent.  °  And 
when  the  door  bell  rang  a  moment  afterward,  a  sudden  flush 
came  to  his  face. 

It  was  very  odd  to  feel  that  he  was  receiving  Nan  as  his  / 
guest.  He  had  dreaded  the  ordeal  greatly,  but  after  the  first 
moment  it  was  not  so  bad.  Grace,  who  had  her  suspicions, 
watched  them  closely,  had  them  verified  without  doubt  during 
the  moment  that  followed  the  Challoners'  entrance;  but  nd 
other  eyes  but  hers  would  have  read  anything  amiss  in  tlW 
young  vicar's  gravely  composed  face. 

Nan,  who  was  looking  beautiful,  met  him  with  her  usua 
unconsciousness;  though  neither  of  them  knew  it,  it  was  thi 
very  unconsciousness  that  was  fast  healing  the  wound.  On 
can  not  mourn  long  after  a  lost  dream,  and  there  hrd  nevej 
been  ajiy  reality  in  it.  Not  one  of  Nan's  thoughts  had  eve 
belonged  to  him  for  a  moment;  his  existence,  his  individualit 
had  never  grazed  the  outer  edge  of  her  susceptibilities.  Dici 
had  incased  her  from  childhood  in  armor  of  proof  againsj 
all  manhood.  Archie  felt  this  even  as  he  touched  her  handi 
and  his  lips  gave  her  welcome.  1 

"  I  am  sorry  your  mother  could  not  come,'Mie  said,  politely. 
And  then  he  turned  to  Phillis,  who  was  regarding  him  with 
an  odd,  dubious  look.  ' 

Archie  felt  the  look,  and  his  spirit  rose  in  instant  opposition. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Middletons  are  to  be  here,  after  all?" 
he  said,  moving  a  little  into  the  background,  for  this  girl  had 
keen  vision,  and,  as  of  old,  her  sympathy  moved  him  strangely. 

"  Oh,  then  we  shall  be  quite  a  party,"  she  returned,  bright- 
ly. "  It  seems  ages  since  ive  have  been  at  one,  and  f  feel  dis- 
posed to  enjoy  myself.  The  very  sight  of  wax  candles  is  ex- 
hilarating. I  am  half  afraid  to  touch  coffee,  for  fear  it  will 
get  into  my  head.     And  how  sweet  Grace  looks  in  that  dress!" 

*'  Your  chef-d'oeuvre,"  he  replied,  rather  wickedly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  recognize  my  handiwork,"  returned  Phillis, 
nonchalantly.  "  I  am  quite  as  proud  of  it  as  an  artist  would  be 
of  a  picture.  Here  conies  Mattie;  poor  little  thing!  she  seems 
tired,  but  she  looks  nice,  too." 

Archie  moved  away  after  this,  for  the  Middletons  were  an- 
nounced; but  he  thought  as  he  lift  her  that  he  had  never  see 
her  look  so  haudsi'me.  Nun's  beauty  had  so  blinded  him  that 
he  had  liardlv  been  aware  what  a  charming  face  Phillis  really 
had:  when  she  was  pleased  or  excited  she  lighted  up  quite 
radian  I  ly. 

"Oil,  dear!"  exclaimed  Mattie,  fussily  coming  up  at  that 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  ^6§ 

moment.  *'  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  your  cousin; 
but  Captain  MidJletou  says  all  the  trains  have  been  snowed 
up." 

"  If  the  train  he  is  in  has  been  snowed  up,  of  course  we 
must  not  expect  to  see  him  this  evening/'  was  Phillis's  laugh- 
ing repi}'.  "  Never  mind;  I  dare  say  we  shall  all  survive  it; 
though  Harry  is  such  a  good  fellow,  and  1  am  immensely 
fond  oC  him." 

"  Oh,  but  the  tea  and  cofiFee  will  be  spoiled.  I  must  go  and 
pour  it  out  now.     Look,  Grace  is  making  signs  to  me." 

"  Shall  I  come  and  help  you?"  was  the  ready  response. 
"What  a  pretty  little  tea-table.  Mattie,  and  how  charmingly 
snug  it  looks  in  the  bay-window!  The  srentlemen  will  wait  on 
us,  of  course.  I  like  this  way  better  than  servants  handing 
round  lukewarm  cups  from  the  kitchen;  it  is  not  so  grand, 
but  it  is  cozier.     Was  it  ynur  arrangement,  Mattie.''" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Mattie,  in  a  disconsolate  tone,  as  she 
took  her  place.  "  But,  Phillis,  are  you  really  not  anxious 
about  your  cousin?  It  is  so  dreadful  to  think  of  him  snowed 
up  all  night,  with  nothing  to  eat  and  drink!" 

Phillis  laughed  outright  at  this. 

"  My  imagination  will  not  conjure  up  to  such  horrors.  I 
believe  Harry  is  at  this  moment  sitting  in  the  hotel  discussing 
a  good  dinner  befoie  a  blazing  fire."  And,  as  Mattie  looked 
injured  at  this,  she  continued,  still  more  merrily:  "  My  dear, 
are  you  such  an  ignoramus  as  to  believe  that  any  amount  of 
wax  candles  and  charming  women  will  induce  an  Englishman 
to  forego  his  dinner?  He  will  come  by  and  by,  and  if  he  gets 
cold  coffee,  he  will  have  his  deserts."  And  then  Mattie's 
anxious  face  grew  more  cheerful. 

The  tea-table  became  the  nucleus  of  the  whole  room  before 
long.  Even  Mr.  Frere,  a  tall,  scholarly  looking  man,  with 
spectacles  and  a  very  bald  head,  though  he  was  still  young, 
seemed  drawn  magnetically  i!ito  the  circle  that  closed  round 
Phillis.  The  girl  was  so  natural  and  sprightly,  there  was  such 
buoyancy  and  brightness  in  her  manner;  and  yet  no  man  could 
ever  have  taken  a  liberty  with  her,  or  mistaken  the  source  of 
that  pure  rippling  fun.  The  light,  jesting  tone,  the  unembar- 
rassed manner,  were  as  free  from  consciousness  as  though 
there  were  gray-headed  dons  round  her,  And  yet,  alas  for 
Phillis!  there  was  not  a  word  uttered  in  a  certain  voice  that 
did  not  reach  her  ear  somehow;  not  a  movement  that  was  lost 
upon  htiv.  even  when  she  chatted  and  laughed  with  those  who 
stood  round  her- 
^  Colonel  Middleton  was  stanch  to  his  little  favorite,  and  sat 


^tO  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRtg. 

on  (he  couch  between  her  and  Grace,  while  Nan  and  Mis8 
Miildleton  talked  apart.  Nan  watched  the  tea-table  smilingly, 
yhe  did  so  love  to  see  Phillis  happy.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
to  feel  herself  a  little  neglected,  or  to  wonder  why  the  grave 
young  master  of  the  house  so  seldom  addressed  her:  thoughts 
of  this  sort  never  entered  Nan's  head. 

But  she  grew  a  little  silent  by  and  by,  and  began  to  answer 
Elizabeth  somewhat  absently.  She  did  not  know  what  it 
meant,  but  a  certain  strong  longing  took  possession  of  her — a 
sc-rt  of  craving  to  see  Dick's  face  and  hear  his  voice.  It  was 
foolish,  of  course;  and  then  she  roused  herself  with  difficulty. 

"  How  late  Harry  is!  I  wonder  if  the  train  be  really  snowed 
up!  Oh,  that  must;  be  he!"  as  the  door  bell  sounded.  "  Mat- 
tie  will  be  glad;  she  was  so  afraid  the  coffee  would  be  cold." 
For  Mattie  had  poured  this  grievance  into  every  one's  ears. 

Of  course  it  was  Sir  Harry.  Yes,  as  the  door  opened,  there 
were  the  broad,  genial  face  and  the  massive  shoulders  that 
could  only  belong  to  one  person.  And  who  was  this  young 
man  following  him — a  somewhat  insignificant  young  man  com- 
pared to  this  son  of  Anak — a  young  man  with  sandy  hair,  with 
a  trivial  mustache,  with  a  free,  careless  expression  of  good 
nature  that  seemed  somehow  stamped  on  his  features.'' 

Nan  did  not  speak  or  move  in  her  corner;  but  she  locked 
her  hands  together  tightly,  and  a  most  wonderful  blush  came 
to  her  face;  for  the  young  man's  eyes  had  moved  quickly 
round  the  room,  with  an  eager  expression  in  them,  and  had 
just  rested  upon  her. 

Nan  sat  immovable  while  Sir  Harry  gave  the  necessary  in- 
troduction in  his  loud,  jovial  voice: 

"  1  am  sorry  to  be  late — I  am,  'pon  my  honor,  Miss  Mattie! 
but  it  could  not  be  helped:  could  it,  Mayne.''  Mr.  Drum- 
inond,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  bring  a  friend  with  me;  he 
is  my  guest  at  piesent — Mr.  Richard  Mayne.  He  has  come 
down  to  Hadleigh  to  see  some  old  acquaintances  of  his." 

"Dick!  Oh,  Dick!"  the  words  would  come  out  now. 
Miss  Midtlleton  had  judiciously  vacated  the  corner  of  the  couch, 
and  Dick  had  boldly  placed  himself  there  instead,  after  first 
touching  Nan's  trembling  hand.  "  What  does  it  mean? 
Why  have  you  startled  me  so?"  she  whispered,  for  they  were 
in  a  snug  corner,  and  no  one  was  near  them. 

"  I  suppose  a  man  has  a  right  to  come  and  look  after  his 
own  belongings?"  returned  Dick,  in  the  coolest  possible  man- 
ner. But  his  eyes  were  more  eloquent  than  his  wordb,  as 
usual.     "  How  lovely  you  are  looking.  Nan!    1  do  believe  you 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS,  3?1 

grow  prettier  every  day.     And  are  you  glad  to  see  me?  half  or 
a  quarter  as  glad  as  I  am  to  see  you?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,'"' she  returned,  softly.  "  1  was 
wondering  what  you  were  doing,  and  picturing  you  at  Long- 
mead;  and  then  the  door  opened,  and  there  you  were,  half  hid- 
den hy  Harry;  and  I  thought  I  was  dreaming.^* 

"  \Ve)l,  that  was  transmission  of  thought,  don't  you  see?  ani- 
mal magnetism,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  You  thought  of 
me  because  I  was  thinking  of  you;  but  you  did  not  know  that 
only  the  door  divided  us.  Oh,  Nan!  isn't  it  awfully  jolly  to 
be  together  again?" 

'  Yes;  but  1  don't  understand  it  yet,"  she  replied.  "  Have 
you  come  without  your  father's  permission,  Dick?  Are  you 
sure  he  will  not  be  very  angry?'^ 

"  Oh.  no;  the  pater  is  all  right.  Sir  Harry — what  a  be-ick 
that  fellow  is! — has  talked  him  over,  and  he  has  given  his 
consent  to  our  engagement.  Look  here,  Xan!  what  yuu  have 
got  to  do  is  to  pack  up  your  things,  and  1  am  to  take  you 
dort-n  to-mnrrow.  This  is  a  note  from  mother,  and  you  will 
see  what  she  says."  And  Nan's  gloved  hand  closed  eagerly 
uprtn  the  precious  missive. 

The  letter  could  not  be  read  just  then.  Nan  sent  Dick  away 
after  that,  though  he  would  willingly  have  remained  in  his 
corner  daring  the  remainder  of  the  evening.  He  went  off 
grumbling,  to  be  civil  to  his  hostess,  and  Nan  remained  be- 
hind trying  to  calm  herself.  It  was  "  all  right,"  Dick  had 
told  her.  IShe  was  to  go  down  with  him  the  next  day  to  dear 
Longmead.  Were  their  troubles  really  over?  Well,  she 
would  hear  all  about  it  to-morrow.  She  must  wait  patiently 
until  then. 

Nan  did  not  long  remain  alone.  Archie,  who  had  watched 
this  little  scene  from  the  bay-window,  suddenly  took  his  op- 
portunity and  crossed  the  room. 

Nan  looked  up  at  him  with  a  happy  smile. 

"  You  have  had  a  surprise  this  evening,  have  you  not.  Miss 
Challoner?  Sir  Harry  has  just  been  telling  me  all  about  it. 
You  will  permit  me  now  to  offer  my  congratulations?" 

"  Most  certainly,  Mr.  Drummond." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  for  both  your  sakes,  that  things  should  be 
so  comfortably  settled,"  he  went  on.  placing  himself  beside 
her— a  movement  that  mightily  displeased  Dick,  who  had  con- 
ceived a  dislike  to  the  handsome  parson  from  the  first.  "  A 
parent's  opposition  is  always  a  serious  drawback  in  such  cases; 
but  Sir  Harry  tells  me  that  Mr.  Mayne  has  given  his  full  con- 
sent." 


372  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  1  believe  so,'*  returned  Nan,  blushing  a  little;  "  but  1 
really  hardly  know  any  particulars.  It  is  such  a  surprise  to 
ine  altogether;  but  his  mother  has  written  to  me,  aud  1  am 
expected  down  there." 

"  You  have  my  warmest  wishes  for  your  happiness,"  con- 
tinued Archie,  gravely;  and  then  Nan  thanked  him. 

But  here  Dick  interrupted  them.  He  was  still  new  to  his 
lole,  and  hardly  had  the  assurance  that  belongs  to  the  en- 
gaged man,  who  feels  himself  safely  steering  toward  the  desired 
haven  of  matrimony.  It  appeared  to  him  that  on  this  even- 
ing he  ought  not  to  lose  sight  of  Nan  for  a  moment.  To  see 
Mr.  Drummond  taking  his  place  was  too  much  for  him,  aud 
he  put  down  his  un tasted  coffee. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  rather  cold,"  observed  Mattie,  anxiously; 
but  she  spoke  to  deaf  ears. 

Dick  was  already  half-way  to  the  corner.  Nan  received  him 
a  little  shyly;  but  Mr.  Drummond  at  once  took  the  hint. 

*'  Oh,  Dick,  people  will  notice!  you  must  take  care,"  re- 
monstrated Nan. 

She  was  preparing  one  of  those  gentle  little  lectures  to  which 
she  sometimes  treated  him,  and  to  which  he  was  wont  to  listen 
■with  the  utmost  submission;  but,  to  her  intense  surprise,  he 
turned  restive. 

"  That  was  all  very  well  when  things  were  not  settled  be- 
tween us,"  observed  Dick,  decidedly.  "  Now  we  are  engaged, 
of  course  1  shall  assert  my  rights  publicly.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter if  people  notice?  They  will  only  think  what  a  lucky  fel- 
low I  am,  aud  how  they  would  like  to  be  in  my  place.  Did 
you  think  1  was  going  to  remain  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
while  that  parson  was  talking  to  you?"  And  then  Nan  all  at 
once  discovered  that,  in  spite  of  Dick's  boyish  looks  and  easy 
temper,  she  found  her  master — that,  like  other  men,  he  was 
capable  of  jealousy,  and  insisted  on  an  entire  and  undivided 
allegiance. 

Nan  was  weak  enough  to  like  him  all  the  better  for  this  lit- 
tle touch  of  tyranny;  and,  after  all,  though  she  felt  it  a  little 
hard  on  Mr.  Drummond,  who  was  so  harmless  and  good- 
natured,  the  sense  of  this  monopoly  was  very  sweet  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XLV]. 

A   NEW    INVASION    OF   THE   GOTHS. 

It  was  the  most  successful  evening — every  one  said  so;  but, 
somehow,  Mattie  had  not  enjoyed  it.  She  supposed  she  was 
tired;  that  lamp  had  worried  her;  but,  though  every  one  had 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS.  373 

been  very  pleasant,  and  had  said  nice  things  to  her — even  that 
formidable  Mr.  Frere — Mattie  felt  something  had  been  lack- 
ing. She  had  been  very  pleased  to  see  Sir  Harry,  and  he  had 
come  up  to  her  at  once  and  spoken  to  her  in  his  usual  genial 
manner;  but,  after  the  first  lew  minutes,  during  which  he  had 
drunk  his  coffee  standing  beside  her,  she  did  not  remember 
that  he  had  again  addressed  her.  After  that,  he  had  made 
his  way  to  Grace,  and  did  not  stir  for  a  long  time. 

Mattie  had  Colonel  Middleton  on  her  hands  then;  but  her 
eyes  would  stray  to  that  part  of  the  room.  How  pretty  Grace 
looked  in  that  soft,  creamy  dress,  with  the  dainty  lace  ruffles 
that  Arcliie  had  sent  her!  Her  face  generally  wanted  color 
and  animation,  but  to-night  she  was  quite  rosy  by  compari- 
son. She  seemed  to  find  Sir  Harry  amusing,  for  she  looked 
up  at  him  very  brightly.  And  then  Archie  joined  them :  he 
would  not  be  de  trop  there,  he  knew.  And  the  three  talked 
as  though  they  never  meant  to  leave  off. 

When  Sir  Harry  came  to  take  his  leave,  he  said,  a  little 
abruptly: 

"  1  like  that  sister  of  yours.  Miss  Mattie.  She  is  sensible 
for  a  girl,  and  yet  she  knows  how  to  laugh.  Clever  girls  are 
generally  a  little  priggish,  do  you  know?  But  one  need  not  be 
afraid  of  Miss  Grace."  And  Mattie  knew  that  from  Sir  Harry 
this  was  high  praise. 

"  Every  one  likes  Grace,'*  she  faltered. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  tbat,"  was  the  ready  response;  and 
then  he  shook  hands  and  thanked  her  for  the  pleasant  even- 
ing. He  did  not  even  look  at  her  as  he  spoke,  Mattie  re- 
membered afterward:  he  was  watching  Nan,  who  was  smil- 
ing on  Dick's  arm. 

The  young  vicar  stood  bareheaded  on  the  snowy  doorstep, 
as  his  guests  merrily  trooped  out  together.  Dick  and  Kan 
came  first:  Nan  had  a  scarlet  hood  over  her  bright  hair,  and 
Dick  was  grumbling  over  the  lightness  of  her  cloak,  and  was 
wrapping  his  gray  overcoat  round  her. 

"  Nonsense,  Nan!  I  insist  upon  it!  and  you  know  nothing 
gives  me  cold!"  Dick  was  saying,  in  his  authoritative  way;  and 
then,  of  course.  Nan  yielded. 

"  '  Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast,'  "  sung  Phillis,  mocking- 
ly, who  was  following  them  under  Captain  Middleton 's  escort. 
"  Don't  you  think  engaged  people  are  sometimes  very  mas- 
terful?" She  spoke,  of  course,  to  her  companion;  but  he  had 
turned  to  warn  his  father  and  Dulce  ct  an  awkward  step,  and 
Archie  intercepted  the  sentence: 

"  Most  men  are  masterful.  Miss  Challoner.     You  will  find 


374  NOT    LIKE    OTHKK    GIRL8. 

that  oat  some  day  for  yourself.''  He  meant  noQiing  by  this 
little  s[)eeeh,  and  he  wa-  ather  taken  aback  by  the  sudden 
hot  blush  that  came  lO  ttiu  girl's  face,  and  the  almost  angry 
light  in  her  eyes,  as  fclio  turned  away  from  him  and  ran  down 
the  slippery  steps,  to  Captain  Middletou's  alarm. 

"  '  On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea,'  "  they  hi  aid  her  kum- 
ming  gayly;  and  Hammond  caught  the  refrain,  and  finished 
it  in  a  fine  manly  bass,  while  Archie  stood  still  under  the 
wintery  sky.  Why  had  she  looked  like  that  at  him?  What 
was  there  in  his  lightly  uttered  speech  to  oCfend  her? 

Grace  was  standing  alone  when  he  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room.  Most  of  the  wax  candles  were  extinguished,  but  the 
soft  glow  of  the  fire-light  irradiated  the  furthest  corner  of  the 
room. 

*'  What  a  glorious  fire!"  he  said,  warming  his  chilly  hands 
at  it,  and  then  throwing  himself  into  the  easy-chair  that  Grace 
silently  placed  for  him.  "  And  where  is  Mattie?  Really,  she 
did  very  well  to-night." 

*'  You  must  tell  her  to-morrow,  she  will  be  so  pleased.  She 
'seems  tired,  and  her  head  aches,  so  I  aQviscd  her  to  go  to 
bed."  And,  though  Archie  did  not  say  openly  ihat  heap- 
proved  of  this  sensible  advice,  he  impliedit  by  the  wayhedrew 
a  low  chair  forward  for  Grace — so  close  bes«'de  him  that  she 
could  rest  her  arm  upon  the  cushioned  elbow  of  his. 

They  remained  comfortably  silent  for  a  long  time:  it  was 
Grace  who  spoke  first. 

"  Archie,"  she  said,  rather  nervously,  but  her  eyes  had  a 
settled  purpose  in  them,  "  shall  you  be  angry  if  I  disobey  you, 
dear,  and  speak  again  on  a  certain  subject?" 

"What  subject?"  he  asked,  rather  surprised  by  her  man- 
ner. He  had  not  a  notion  to  what  she  was  referring;  he  did 
not  know  how  during  that  long  silence  their  thoughts  had  been 
touching  the  same  point,  and  that  all  this  time  she  was  seek- 
ing courage  to  speak  to  him. 

"  I  know  your  secret,  Archie;  I  discovered  it  to-night." 

"  My  secret!"  he  returned,  in  utter  amazement.  "  I  have 
no  secret,  Gracie. "  And  then,  as  he  caught  her  meaning,  a 
cloud  came  to  his  brow.  "  But  this  i?  nonsense!"  he  contin- 
ued, harshly — "  pure  nonsense;  put  it  out  of  your  head." 

"  1  saw  it  to-night,"  she  went  on,  in  a  very  low  voice,  un- 
disturbed by  his  evident  displeasure.  "  She  is  good  and  sweet, 
and  quite  lovely,  Archie,  and  that  young  man  is  not  half 
worthy  of  her,  bat  she  has  no  thought  but  for  him." 

"  Dct  you  think  I  do  not  know  that?"  he  returned,  in  an 
exasperated  tone.     "  Grace,  I  will  not  have  you  talk  in  tl^' 


ifOt    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  ^'^5 

Way.  I  am  cured — quite  cured:  it  was  nothiug  but  a  pass- 
ing folly. " 

"  A  follv  that  made  you  very  unhappy,  ray  poor  Archie; 
but — huah!  you  must  not  interrupt  me — 1  am  not  going  to 
talk  about  her." 

"  Oh,  that  is  well,"  he  returned,  in  a  relieved  tone. 

"  1  was  sorry — just  a  little  sorry — at  first,  because  I  knew 
how  much  it  had  cost  you;  but  thid  evening  I  could  have 
foiuid  it  in  my  heart  to  be  angry  with  you — yes,  even  with 
you.  '  Oh,  the  blindness  of  these  men!'  I  thought:  '  why  will 
they  trample  on  their  own  happiness?'  " 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  me.^"  he  asked,  in  a  bewildered  tone. 

"  Of  whom  should  1  be  speaking?"  she  answered,  and  her 
voice  had  a  peculiar  meaning  in  it.  "  You  are  my  dear 
brother — my  dearest  brother;  but  you  are  no  more  Sensible 
than  other  men." 

"  1  suppose  not,"  he  returned,  staring  at  her:  "  1  suppose 
not." 

"  Many  men  have  done  what  you  are  doing,**  she  went  on, 
quietly.  "  Many  have  wanted  what  belonged  to  another,  and 
have  turned  their  backs  upon  the  blessing  that  m  ght  have 
been  theirs.  It  is  the  game  of  cross-purposes.  Do  you  re- 
member that  picture,  Archie — the  lovelv  print  you  longed  to 
buy — the  two  girls  and  the  two  men?  There  was  the  pr.  tty, 
demure  maiden  in  front,  and  at  the  back  a  girl  with  a  far 
sweeter  face  to  my  mind,  watching  the  gloomy  looking  fellow 
who  is  regarding  his  divinity  from  afar.  There  was  a  face 
here  to-night  that  brought  that  second  girl  strongly  to  ray 
mind;  and  I  caught  an  expression  on  it  once — "  Here 
Archie  violently  started. 

"  Hush!  hush!  what  are  you  implying?  Grace,  you  are  ro- 
mancing; you  do  not  mean  this?" 

"  As  there  is  a  heaven  above  us,  I  do  mean  it,  Archie." 

"  Then,  for  God's  sake,  not  another  word!"  And  then  he 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  stood  on  the  rug. 

"  You  are  not  really  angry  with  me?"  she  urged,  fright- 
ened at  his  vehemence. 

"  No;  1  am  not  angry.  1  never  am  angry  with  you,  Grace, 
as  you  know;  but  all  the  same  there  are  some  things  that 
never  should  be  said."  And,  when  he  had  thus  gravely  re- 
buked her  speech,  he  kissed  her  forehead,  and,  muttering  some 
excuse  about  the  laceness  of  the  hour,  left  the  room. 

Grace  crept  away  to  her  chamber  a  little  discomfited  by 
this  rebuff,  gently  as  it  had  been  given;  but  if  she  had  only 


hi6  ^OT    LIKE    OTHER    GlRtS. 

guessed  the  commotion  those  few  hinted  words  had  raised  in 
her  brother's  mind! 

He  hud  understood  her;  in  one  moment  he  had  understood 
her.  As  though  by  a  lightning  flash  of  intelligence,  the  truth 
had  dawned  upon  him;  and  if  an  electric  shock  had  passed 
turough  his  frame  and  set  all  his  nerves  tingling  he  could  not 
have  been  more  deeply  shaken. 

Was  that  what  she  thought,  too,  when  she  had  turned  away 
from  him  with  that  quiet  look  of  scorn  on  her  face?  Did  she 
know  of  any  possible  blessing  that  might  have  been  his,  only 
that;  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  it,  crying  out  childishly  for 
a  shadowy  hap{)iness?  Did  she  mutter  to  herself  also,  "  Oh, 
the  blindness  of  these  men!" 

There  is  an  old  saying,  greatly  credited  by  the  generah'ty  of 
people,  that  hearts  are  often  caught  at  the  rebound — that  in 
their  painful  tossings  from  uneven  heights  and  depths,  and 
that  sad  swinging  over  uncertain  abysses,  some  are  suddenly 
attracted  and  held  fast;  and  there  is  sufficient  proof  to  war- 
rant the  truth  of  this  adage. 

The  measurements  of  pain  are  unequal:  different  natures 
hold  di£Eerent  capacities.  A  trouble  that  seems  very  real  at 
the  time,  and  full  of  stings,  may  be  fuund  later  on  to  be 
largely  alloyed  by  wounded  self-love  and  frustrated  vanity. 
Sound  it  with  the  plumb-line  of  experience,  of  time,  of  wak- 
ening h  )p8f  ulness,  and  it  may  sink  fathoms,  and  bv  and  by 
end  in  nothingness,  or  perhaps  more  truly  in  just  a  sense  of 
salt  bitterness  between  the  teeth,  as  when  one  plunges  in  a 
watiing  tide. 

]Sot  that  Archie  realized  all  this  as  he  paced  his  room  that 
night:  no;  he  was  very  strangely  moved  and  excited.  Some- 
thing, he  knew  not  what,  had  again  stirred  the  monotony  of 
his  life.  He  had  been  sick  and  &ad  for  a  long  time;  for  men 
are  like  children,  and  fret  sometimes  after  the  unattainable, 
if  their  hearts  be  set  upon  it.  And  yet,  though  he  forbore 
to  questim  himself  too  closely  that  night,  how  much  of  his 
pain  hud  been  due  to  wounded  vanity  and  crossed  willfulness! 

It  was  long  before  he  could  sleep,  for  the  sudden  broaden- 
ing of  the  perspective  of  his  future  kept  him  wide  awake  and 
restless.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  straining  his  eyes  to 
look  down  a  long,  gray  vista,  where  he  saw  things  dimly,  and 
that  suddenly  there  was  a  low  light  on  the  horizon — not  brill- 
iant, not  even  clear;  but  it  spake  of  approaching  day-break. 
By  and  by  the  path  would  be  more  plainly  visible. 

There  was  great  excitement  at  the  Friary  on  the  next  day. 
They  had  found  it  hard  to  get  rid  of  Dick  the  previous  uight; 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  377 

but  Sir  Harry,  who  read  his  aunt's  tired  face  rightly,  had  car- 
ried him  off  almost  by  sheer  force,  after  a  leugthy  leave-takiug 
with  Nan  iu  the  passage. 

It  was  only  Mrs.  Challoner  who  was  tired.  Poor  woman! 
she  was  fairly  worn  out  by  the  violence  of  her  conflicting  feel- 
ing— by  sympathy  with  Nan  in  her  happiness,  with  pleasure  in 
Dick's  demonstrative  joy,  and  sorrow  at  the  thought  of  losing 
her  child.  The  girl  herself  was  far  too  much  excited  for  sleep. 

She  and  Phillis  did  all  the  packing  for  the  next  day,  and  it 
was  not  until  Dulce  sleepily  warned  them  of  the  laceuess  of 
the  hour  that  they  consented  to  separate;  and  then  'N&n  sat 
by  the  parlor  fire  a  long  time  alone,  enjoying  the  luxury  of 
undisturbed  meditation. 

But  the  next  morning,  just  as  they  had  gone  into  the  work- 
room, not  to  settle  to  any  business — that  was  impossible  under 
the  present  exciting  circumstances — but  just  to  fold  up  and 
dispatch  a  gown  that  had  been  fiiiished  for  Mrs.  Squalls,  while 
Dulce  put  the  finishing  touches  to  Mrs.  Cheyne's  tweed  dress, 
Nan  announced  in  a  glad  voice  that  their  cousin  and  Dick 
were  are  the  gate;  "  and  I  am  so  thankful  we  packed  last 
night,"  she  continued,  "  for  Dick  will  not  let  me  have  a  free 
momRnt  until  we  start." 

"  You  should  keep  him  in  better  order,"  observed  Phillis, 
tersely;  *'  if  you  give  him  his  own  way  so  much,  you  will  not 
have  a  will  of  your  own  when  you  are  married;  will  she, 
mc  ther?"  Mrs.  Challoner  smiled  a  little  feebly  in  answer  to 
this:  she  could  not  remember  the  time  when  she  had  had  a 
will  of  her  own. 

Nan  went  out  shyly  to  meet  them;  but  she  could  not  un- 
derstand her  reception  at  all.  Dick's  grasp  of  her  hand  was 
sufficieiitly  eloquent,  but  he  said  nothing;  and  Nan  thought 
be  was  trying  not  to  laugh,  for  there  was  a  gleam  of  fun  in 
his  eyes,  though  he  endeavored  to  look  solemn.  Sir  Harry's 
face,  too,  wore  an  expression  of  portentous  gravity. 

"  Are  you  all  in  the  work-room.  Nan?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone 
as  though  they  were  assembled  at  a  funeral. 

"Yes;  mother  and  all,"  answered  Nan,  brightly.  "What 
is  the  matter  with  you  both?     You  look  dreadfully  solemn." 

"  Because  we  have  a  little  business  before  us,"  returned  Sir 
Harry,  wrinkling  his  brows  and  frowning  at  Dick.  "  Come, 
Mayne,  if  you  ai-e  ready." 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Nan.  I  will  speak  to  you  afterward,"  ob- 
served that  young  gentleman,  divesting  himself  of  his  gray 
overcoat;  and  Nan,  very  much  puzzled,  preceded  them  into 
the  room. 


578  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Caiherioc  ?  Good-morning,  girls,*' 
nodded  8ir  Harry;  and  then  he  looked  at  Dick.  And  what 
were  they  both  doing?  Were  they  mad?  They  must  have 
taken  leave  of  their  senses;  for  Dick  had  raised  his  foot  gen- 
tly—very gently— and  Mrs.  Squails's  red  merino  gown  lay  in 
the  passage.  At  the  same  moment  Sir  Harry's  huge  hand 
had  closed  over  the  tweed,  and,  by  a  dexterous  Ihrust,  had 
flung  it  as  far  as  the  kitchen.  And  now  Dick  was  bundhug 
out  the  sewing-machine. 

"  Dick!  oh,  Dick!"  hi  an  alarmed  voice  from  Dulce.  And 
Phillis  flew  to  the  great  carved  wardrobe,  that  Sir  Harry  was 
ransacking;  while  Nan  vainly  strove  to  rescue  the  fashion- 
books  that  Dick  was  now  flinging  into  the  fender. 

"Oh,  you  great  Goth!  You  stupid,  ridiculous  Harry!" 
observed  Phillis,  scornfully,  while  the  rolls  of  silk  and  satin 
and  yards  of  trimming  were  tossed  lightly  into  a  heap  of  debris. 

Laddie  was  growling  and  choking  over  the  buttons.  Doro- 
thy afterward  carried  away  a  whole  shovelful  of  pins  and  hooks 
and  eyes. 

Nan  sat  down  by  her  mother  and  folded  her  hands  en  her 
lap.  When  men  were  masterful,  it  was  time  for  maidens  to 
sit  still.  Dulce  really  looked  frightened,  but  Phillis  presently 
broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  This  is  a  parable  of  nature,"  she  said.  "  Mammie,  does 
your  head  ache?     Would  you  like  to  go  into  the  next  room?" 

"  There,  we  have  about  done!"  observed  8ir  Harry.  "  The 
place  is  pretty  well  clear:  isn't  it,  Mayne?"  And,  as  Dick 
nodded  a  cheerful  assent,  he  shut  the  door  of  the  wardrobe, 
lociked  it,  and,  with  much  solemnity,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
*'  Now  for  my  parable,"  he  said.  "  Aunt  Catherine,  you  will 
excuse  a  bit  of  a  spree,  but  one  must  take  the  high  hand  with 
these  girls.  I  have  bundled  out  the  whole  lot  of  trumpery; 
but,  as  head  of  this  family,  1  am  not  going  to  stand  any  more 
of  this  nonsense." 

"  Oh,  indeed!"  put  in  Phillis.  "  I  hope  Mrs.  Squails  will 
take  her  creased  gown.  Dulce,  the  sewing-machine  is  right  on 
the  top  of  it — a  most  improving  process,  certainly." 

"  Now,  Phillis,  you  will  shut  up  wilh  your  nonsense!  As 
head  of  the  family,  I  am  not  going  to  stand  any  more  of  this 
sort  of  thing." 

^  "  What  sort  of  thing?"  asked  Mrs.  Challoner,  timidly. 
*'  My  dears,  I  thought  it  was  only  fun;  but  1  do  believe  your 
cousin  is  in  earnest." 

"  1  am  quite  in  earnest.  Aunt  Catherine,"  returned  Sir 
Harry,  sitting  down  beside  her  and  taking  her  hand.     "I 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  S/'ft 

hope  our  bit  of  larking  has  not  been  too  much  for  you;  but 
tiiat  fellow  vowed  it  would  be  a  good  joke."  And  here  Dick^d 
eyes  twinkled.  "  If  Mrs.  Squails's  gown  is  spoiled,  I  will  buy 
her  another;  but  on  your  peril,  girls,  if  you  put  a  stitch  in  any 
but  your  own  from  this  day  forward!" 

"  Please  your  honor  kindly,"  whined  Phillis,  dropping  a 
courtesy,  "  and  what  will  your  honor  have  us  do?" 

"  Do!"  and  then  he  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  I  will  tell 
you  that  presently.  All  I  know  is,  Kan  is  engaged  to  my 
friend  Mayne,  here;  and  I  have  promised  his  father,  on  my 
word  as  a  gentleman  and  head  of  this  family,  that  this  dress- 
making humbug  shall  be  given  up." 

"  You  had  no  right  to  give  such  a  promise,"  returned  Phil- 
lis, offended  at  this;  but  Aran's  hand  stole  into  Dick's.  She 
understood  now. 

"  But,  Harry,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Challoner,  "  what 
would  you  have  them  do?" 

"  Oh,  play  tennis — dance — flirt  if  they  like!  How  do  young 
ladies  generally  occupy  their  time?  Don't  let  us  talk  about 
such  petty  details  as  this.  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  new 
house.  You  all  know  Gilsbank?  Well,  it  is  '  Challoner 
Place '  DOW." 

"  Y^ou  have  bought  it,  Harry?" 

"  Yes,  1  have  bought  it,"  he  returned,  coolly.  "  And 
what  is  more,  1  hope  to  settle  down  there  in  another  mouth's 
time.  How  soon  do  you  think  you  will  be  ready  to  move. 
Aunt  Catherine?" 

"  My  dear!"  in  a  voice  of  mild  astonishment.  But  Dulce 
clapped  her  hands:  she  thought  she  guessed  his  meaning. 
"  Are  we  to  live  with  you,  Harry?  Do  you  really  mean  to 
take  us  with  you?" 

*'  Of  course  I  shall  take  you  with  me;  but  not  to  Challoner 
Place.  That  would  bo  rather  close  quarters;  and— and — 1 
may  make  different  arrangements,"  rather  sheepishly.  "  Aunt 
Caiherine,  Glen  Cottage  will  be  all  ready  for  you  and  the  girls. 
I  have  settled  about  the  furniture;  and  Mrs.  Mayne  will  have 
the  fires  lighted  whenever  you  like  to  come  down.  Why,  aunt 
— dear  Aunt  Catherine,"  as  he  felt  her  thin  hand  tremble  in 
liis,  and  the  tears  started  to  lier  eyes,  "did  you  not  tell  me 
how  much  you  loved  your  old. home?  And  do  you  think  when 
you  have  no  son  to  take  care  of  yon,  that  I  should  ever  let  you 
be  far  from  me?" 

"  Confound  you!"  growled  Dick.  '*  Is  not  a  son-iu-law  as 
good  as  a  son  any  day?" 

But  no  one  heard  ihis  but  KaUt 


^0  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Mrs.  Chalioner  was  weepiug  for  joy,  and  Dulce  was  keeping 
her  company;  but  Phillis  walked  up  to  her  cousin  with  a 
shamefaced  look: 

"  I  am  sorry  I  called  you  a  Goth,  Harry.  I  ought  to  have 
remembered  Alcides.  You  are  as  good  as  gold.  You  are  a 
dear,  generous  fellow,  and  I  love  you  for  it,  and  so  do  Nan 
and  Dulce.  And  I  was  not  a  bit  cross,  really;  but  you  did 
look  such  a  great  goose,  turning  out  that  wardrobe. ''  But 
though  she  laughed  at  the  remembrance,  the  tears  were  in 
Phillis's  eyes. 

Dick  was  nobody  after  this:  not  that  he  minded  that.  How 
could  they  help  crowding  round  this  "  big  hero  "  of  theirs, 
who  had  performed  such  wonders? 

Gilsbank  turned  into  Chalioner  Place;  Glen  Cottage,  with  its 
conservatory  and  brand-new  furniture,  theirs  again — their 
own — their  very  own  (for  Sir  Harry  intended  to  buy  that  too 
as  soon  as  possible);  Nan  engaged  to  her  dearest  Dick,  and  all 
the  neighborhood  prepared  to  welcome  them  back! 

"  If  you  please.  Miss  Phillis,  Mrs.  ^quails  desires  her  com- 
pliments, and  she  is  waiting  for  her  dress." 

We  forbear  to  repeat  Sir  Harry's  answer.  Nevertheless, 
with  Dick's  help,  the  unfortunate  gown  was  extricated,  and 
privately  ironed  by  Dorothy. 

"  That  is  a  good  morning's  work  of  yours,"  observed  Phil- 
lis, quietly  looking  down  at  the  heap  at  her  feet.  "  Dorothy, 
it  seems  Sir  Harry  is  master  here.  If  any  more  orders  come 
for  us  you  may  as  well  say,  '  The  Misses  Chalioner  have  given 
up  business.'  " 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

**  IT  WAS  SO  GOOD  OF  YOU  TO  ASK  ME  HERE.'* 

Mrs.  Challoner  heaved  a  gentle  little  sigh  when  in  the 
afternoon  the  fly  carried  off  Nan  and  Dick  to  the  station:  it 
brought  to  her  mind  another  day  that  would  come  far  too 
soon.  Phillis  spoke  out  this  thought  boldly  as  she  ran  back 
to  the  cottage. 

"  I  wanted  to  throw  an  old  shoe  for  luck,  mammie,"  she 
said,  laughing,  "  only  I  knew  Nan  would  be  so  dreadfully 
shocked.  How  happy  they  looked!  And  Dick  was  making 
such  a  fuss  over  her,  bringing  out  his  plaid  to  wrap  her  in. 
Certainly  he  is  much  improved,  and  looks  fiv^e  years  older." 

Perhaps  Dick  shared  Mrs.  Challnner's  thought  too,  for  an 
expression  of  deep  gravity  crossed  his  face  as  he  sat  down  by 


^Of    TJKt;    OTHER    GIRL8.  381 

TiTan— a  look  that  was  tender,  and  yet  wistful,  as  he  took  her 
hand. 

"  Oh,  Nan!  it  does  seem  so  nice  to  have  you  all  to  myself 
for  a  little — just  you  and  1,  alone,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
outside  somewhere!  Do  you  know  it  is  possible  to  be  almost 
too  happy?"  And  Dick  sighed  from  the  very  fullness  of  con- 
tent. 

Nan  gave  a  merry  little  laugh  at  this. 

"  Oh,  no:  to  me  it  seems  only  natural  to  be  happy.  When 
things  were  at  their  worst  1  knew  they  would  come  right  some 
day;  and  I  could  not  be  quite  miserable,  even  then.  It  was 
hard,  of  course;  but  when  one  is  young,  one  ought  not  to  mind 
a  little  waiting.  And  we  have  not  waited  long,  have  we, 
dear?"     But  to  this  Dick  demurred. 

"  It  was  the  longest  term  I  ever  passed,"  he  returned,  seri- 
ously. "  When  a  fellow  is  in  that  sort  of  unsettled  state,  he 
can  not  measure  time  in  the  ordinary  way.  Well,  the  ordeal 
is  over,  thank  Heaven!"  And  then  he  paused,  and  continued, 
a  little  thoughtfully:  "  What  I  have  to  do  now  is  to  work  hard 
and  do  my  best  to  deserve  you.  1  shall  never  be  worthy  of 
you,  Nan;  I  know  that." 

"  I  think  you  quite  worthy  of  me,"  she  answered,  softly; 
and  now  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  no;  no  fellow  could  be  that,"  he  replied,  decidedly. 
'*  1  am  well  enough  in  my  way,  and,  compared  with  other  men, 
I  am  not  so  bad,"  continued  Dick,  who  had  a  sufficiently  good 
opinion  of  his  own  merits,  in  spite  of  the  humility  of  his 
speech;  "  but  as  to  coming  up  to  you,  Nan,  by  a  long  way, 
why,  the  thing  is  impossible!  But  I  tell  you  this,  it  helps  a 
fellow  to  keep  right  and  steady  when  he  believes  in  the  good- 
ness of  the  girl  belonging  to  him." 

"  You  must  not  make  me  vain,"  she  half  whispered,  and 
her  lips  trembled  a  little  at  his  praise.  But  he  disregarded 
this  remonstrance,  and  went  on: 

"  You  have  kept  me  right  all  my  life.  How  could  I  ever 
do  a  mean  or  a  shabby  action,  to  make  you  ashamed  of  me? 
When  1  was  tempted  once  or  twice — for  idle  young  fello?ra 
will  be  tempted— I  used  to  say  to  myself,  No,  Nan  would  not 
approve  if  she  knew  it.  And  1  held  tight  to  this  thought, 
and  I  am  glad  now  that  I  can  look  in  your  dear  face  and  tell 
you  this.  It  makes  me  feel  so  ha|)py."  And  indeed  Dick^s 
face  was  radiant. 

They  were  almost  sorry  when  the  journey  was  over;  they 
had  so  much  to  say  to  each  other.  The  wintery  landscape  was 
growing   graj  and  indistinct  as  they  reached  their  destiua- 


38^  $TOt    LIKE    OtSEK    GIRLg. 

tion,  and  though  Nan  peered  anxiously  into  the  darkness  for 
a  glimpse  of  each  well-remembered  spot,  she  could  only  just 
discern  the  dim  outline  of  Glen  Cottage  before  the  carriage 
turned  in  at  the  gates  of  Longmead. 

Mr.  Maytie  hail  determined  to  pay  his  intended  daughter-in- 
law  all  becoming  honors,  and  as  soon  as  the  carriage  wheels 
were  heard  he  had  the  hall  door  thrown  back  to  show  the 
bright,  welcoming  light,  and  he  himself  descended  the  flight 
of  steps  to  the  terrace.  "Just  as  though  I  were  a  royal  person- 
age," laughed  Nan.  But  she  was  a  little  flattered  by  the 
complicuent. 

Most  girls  would  have  felt  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation, 
but  not  Nan.  The  moment  Dick  assisted  her  out  of  the  car- 
riage she  walked  up  to  his  father,  and  'put  up  her  face  to  be 
kissed  in  the  most  natural  way.  "  It  was  so  good  of  you  to 
ask  me  here;  and  I  was  so  glad  to  come,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  There,  there!  run  in  out  of  the  cold,"  was  all  his  answer; 
and  he  patted  her  hand  a  little  awkwardly.  But,  though  his 
voice  had  its  usual  gruffness,  his  manner  was  otherwise  kind. 
"  How  are  you,  Dick?  I  hope  Roper  did  not  keep  you  waiting 
at  the  station,  for  you  are  a  quarter  of  an  hour  behind  time." 
And  then  he  took  his  son's  arm  and  walked  up  the  steps  again. 

Nan,  meanwhile,  had  run  through  the  hall  and  into  the 
warm,  softly  lighted  drawing-room,  and  there  she  soon  found 
herself  in  Mrs.  Mayne's  motherly  arms.  When  the  gentlemen 
came  in  they  interrupted  quite  a  little  scene,  for  Mrs.  Mayne 
was  actually  crying  over  the  girl,  and  Nan  was  kissing  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  stop  that  sort  of  thing, 
Bessie,"  observed  her  husband,  dryly,  "  and  get  Nan  a  cup 
of  tea?  You  would  like  some  tea,  my  dear,  would  you  not?" 
in  a  more  gracious  voice. 

Of  course  Nan  said  she  would  like  some,  just  to  show  her 
appreciation  of  his  thoughtfulness;  and  then  Dick  said  he 
should  like  some  too,  and  nis  father  quizzed  him  a  little  as  he 
rang  the  bell.  And  as  Mrs.  Mayne  obediently  dried  her  eyes 
at  her  husband's  behest,  they  were  soon  very  happy  and  com- 
fortable. When  Nan's  cup  was  empty,  Dick  darted  to  take 
it,  that  it  might  be  replenished;  but  his  father  was  before 
him. 

All  that  evening  Mr.  Mayne  waited  on  Nan,  quite  ignoring 
his  son's  claims.  He  had  a  special  brand  of  champugne  served 
that  Nan  had  once  said  she  liked;  and  ho  reminded  her  of  this, 
and  pressed  her  to  partake  of  it. 

"  This  is  to  your  health,  my  dear,"  he  said,  lifting  his  glass 
of  port  to  his  lips  when  the  servants  had  withdrawn;  *'  and  to 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  383 

yours  too,  Dick. "     And  then  Nan  blushed  very  becomingly, 
and  Diok  thanked  him  a  little  gravely. 

"  I  do  think  the  old  boy  has  fallen  in  love  with  you  himself, 
for  he  has  nut  let  me  come  near  you  all  the  evening,"  whis- 
pered Dick  later  on  that  night,  pretending  to  grumble,  but 
in  reality  looking  very  happy. 

"  He  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  returned  the  girl;  and  she 
repeated  this  for  Mrs,  Mayne's  benefit,  when  at  last  the  two 
women  found  themselves  free  to  indulge  in  a  little  talk.  Nan 
had  coaxed  her  friend  to  sit  beside  her  fire  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  she  had  knelt  down  beside  her,  wrapping  her  arms 
round  her  in  the  most  affectionate  way. 

"  Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Mayne,  how  nice  all  this  is!  and  how 
good  Mr.  Mayne  has  been  to  me  all  this  evening!'* 

"My  Ivichard  never  does  things  by  halves,"  returned 
Mrs.  Mayne,  proudly.  "People  can  not  always  under- 
stand him,  because  his  manner  is  a  little  rough  sometimes; 
but  1  know,  and  none  better,  his  real  goodness  of  heart. 
Why,  he  is  so  pleased  with  himself  and  you  and  Dick  this 
evening  that  he  hardly  knows  how  to  contain  himself;  but  he 
is  a  little  awkward  in  showing  it." 

"  Oh,  no;  I  did  not  think  him  aivkward  at  all." 

"  1  must  say  you  behaved  beautifully.  Nan,  never  seeming 
as  though  you  remembered  that  there  had  been  anything  amiss, 
but  just  taking  everything  as  he  meant  it.  Of  course  I  knew 
how  you  would  act:  I  was  not  afraid  that  1  should  be  disap- 
pointed," 

"  Of  course  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

"  And  Diuk,  too,  behaved  so  well,  keeping  in  the  back- 
ground just  to  give  his  father  full  freedom.  I  must  say  I  was 
pleased  with  him,  too,  for  most  young  men  are  so  thoughtless; 
but,  then,  his  behavior  to  his  father  has  b^en  perfect  through- 
out." 

"  I  knew  it  would  be,"  whispered  Nan. 

**  I  am  sure  it  made  my  heart  ache  to  see  him.  Sometimes 
he  would  come  iu  whistling  and  pretending  to  be  his  old  self, 
so  light-hearted  and  cheerful;  and  all  the  time  he  was  fretting 
himself  to  death,  as  1  told  Richard.  Richard  was  terribly  try- 
ing sometimes — you  know  his  way — but  the  boy  bore  it  so 
well.  It  was  not  till  the  last,  when  they  had  that  walk,  and 
Dick  was  goaded  into  positive  anger,  that  he  ever  lost  his  tem- 
per in  the  least.  I  will  say  this.  Nan,  that  though  my  Dick 
may  not  be  much  to  look  at,  he  has  the  sweetest  temper  and 
the  kindest  heart."  And  so  the  simple  woman  rau  on,  and 
Kau  listened,  well  pleased. 


^^^  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIELS. 

should,  as  he  stood  thougl.l^ufi;  e^;:it  Itg  t^te?^  '^^ 
^^  Well,  Eichurd    vvon^L  you  owu  she  is  lovel/novvr^ 


Humpl 
he  ret 
Bessie 


^n  ^.^^e;  4e  is  out  1.^^^:,;;;^^  .h:';^.!^: 

xi""'",  n"r^  ,^'^^1"°"^  i'^  *'^^-  ^^"^bat^s  voice  ^^  '^ 
Naa  made  Dick  take  her  to  all  their  old  haunts  the  nevf 
morning;  but  first  of  all  they  went  to  Glen  Cot  age  Nan  ,?a 
through  all  the  rooms  with  almost  a  child^sglee:  nothil  could 
exceed  her  delight  when  l)ick  showed  her  the  draSoo^^^ 
with  the  new  conservatory  opening  out  of  it.  ^  ' 

her-  "  h  n'  "'''  '  ^T^^^  ^'"^^'^  '^'^  ^^'^'  glancing  round 
?ransfo.m  d  ft  ''T'^'P  ^"^  the  new  furniture  ha^  qufte 
ThP  vvhn7«  1  i^r  ^'^^'-^led  mother  and  the  girls  will  bel 
ihe  whole  house  looks  better  than  when  we  were  in  it  " 

Nonsense!-  returned  Dick,  stoutly.     "  There  never  was 
a  house  to  compare  with  it.     lalways  loved  it,  and  so  d  d  you 
Nan.     What  a  summer  we  shall  have  here,  when  I  am  reading 
up   or  honors  in  the  long  vacation!     I  mean  to  woHc  p,et  f 
hard;  for  when  a  fellow  has  such  an  object  as  thaL--^rnd 

guile^l^^oratt^Lr ^-^"^^^^  ^"^  ^^-  -«  -^  to  bet^ 

They  were  so  happy  and  so  young  that  they  could  afford 

L^t?  ^''"r  "-^  '^''  ^l^  ^^ot'wishlDick  to  spe^k  yefo?  that 
day  that  was  looming  m  the  distance. 

She  could  only  be  sure  of  one  summer  at  Glen  Cot(ae-e-  bnf 
what  a  time  they  would  have!     She  stood     or  a  loni  ^hi^e 

m^r  a^ern  ons^'^^rt"^'  ^^^^"'^  F  ^°^^'^^^  ^^^^  o'  -^- 
Thl  ■     \-        n  tenuis-ground  was  marked  out  already 

m  her  imagination;  the  tea-table  in  its  old  place  undei- the 
trees;  there  was  her  mother  knitting  in  her  favorite  wicker^ 
frl'nds.       ■'   ^"'''   ^"^"^    ""^    ^^^^'''   ««rrounded  bj  theL 

onLfurZ  n-%'  ?^°'-  ^r  y^^"  ^oon-struck,  or  dreaming?- 
questioned  Dick,  drawing  her  arm  through  his.  -  Do  you  re- 
member what  we  have  to  do  before  luncheon?  And  Vigo 
looks  so  impatient  for  his  run. -    But  even  Dick  paused  fo  ?a 

Tor'^Z^-''^r''^''^^  t?.«howNanthe  roses  she^had  picked 
lor  him  J  ust  there,  and  which  still  lay  iu  his  pocket-bpok, 


NOT    UKT.    OTHER    GIRLS.  385 

All  her  old  friends  crowded  round  Nau  to  welcome  her 
back;  and  great  were  the  rejoicings  when  they  heard  that  Glen 
Cottage  was  to  be  in  the  Challoners'  possession  again.  Carrie 
Paine  and  Adelaide  Sartoris  called  first.  Carrie  embraced  Nan 
with  tearful  effusion:  she  was  an  honest,  warm-hearted  creat- 
ure.    But  Adelaide  looked  at  her  a  little  curiously. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  the  scandal  that  has  been  talked  about  you 
all!^'  she  said,  in  a  mysterious  tone.  "  Carrie  and  I  would 
not  believe  it:  could  we.  Car?  We  told  people  to  hold  their 
tonguets  and  not  talk  such  nonsense.'^ 

"  Never  mind  that  now,  Addie,"  returned  Nan,  cheerfully. 
She  felt  she  must  be  careful  of  what  she  said,  for  Dick's  sake. 
*'  We  have  had  our  worries,  and  have  worked  as  better  people 
have  before  us;  but  now  it  is  all  over." 

"  But  is  it  true  that  your  cousin.  Sir  Henry  Challoner,  has 
bought  Gilsbank?"  broke  in  Carrie.  "  Tell  us  about  him, 
dear.  Addie  thought  she  saw  him  once.  Is  he  a  tall  man 
with  red  hair?'* 

"  Very  red  hair,''  responded  Nan,  laughing. 

*'  Then  1  did  see  him,"  replied  Miss  Sartoris,  decidedly. 
"  He  is  quite  a  giant.  Nan;  but  he  looks  very  good-nat- 
ured." 

Miss  Sartoris  was  just  engaged  to  a  dapper  little  colonel  in 
the  hussars,  so  she  could  atford  to  be  quizzed  on  the  subject 
of  Sir  Harry's  inches;  but  Carrie,  who  was  at  present  unat- 
tached, was  a  little  curious  about  the  future  master  of  Gils- 
bank. 

After  this.  Nan  called  at  Fitzroy  Lodge,  and  Dick  went  with 
Iier.  Lady  Fitzroy,  who  was  looking  very  pretty  and  deli- 
cate, welcomed  Nan  with  the  greatest  kindness.  When  Lord 
Fitzroy  came  in  with  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  from  hunting, 
he  questioned  Nan  very  closely  about  their  new  neighbor.  Sir 
Henry  Challoner,  and  made  a  great  many  kind  inquiries  after 
his  favorite.  Miss  Phillis. 

"  So  we  are  to  have  you  all  back,  eh?"  he  queried,  pleas- 
antly. "  Well,  1  call  that  good  news.  I  am  bound  that  Evelyn 
is  as  pleased  to  hear  it  as  I  am." 

"  I  am  very  much  pleased,"  returned  Lady  Fitzroy,  gra- 
ciously. "  And  you  must  tell  your  mother  so,  with  my  love. 
Percival,  will  you  ring  for  some  more  hot  water,  j^lease?  1 
shall  not  be  long:  but  I  am  going  to  take  Miss  Challoner  up- 
stairs to  see  our  boy. " 

Nan  knew  that  a  great  privilege  was  being  conferred  on  her 
as  she  followed  Lady  Fitzroy  into  the  grand  nursery,  where 
the  tiny  heir  lay  in  his  bassinet. 


3§6  NOT    LIKE    OTHKn    OTRtS. 

"  Is  he  nob  just  like  Fitzroy?"  exclaimed  the  proncl  yonng 
mother,  as  they  stood  looking  down  on  the  recl^  cruninlerl  feat- 
ures of  the  new-comer.  "  Nurse  says  she  has  never  seen  such 
a  striking  likeness." 

"  He  is  a  darling!"  exclaimed  Nan,  who  was,  like  other 
girls,  a  devout  baby- worshiper;  then  they  discoursed  very  elo- 
quently on  his  infantile  beauties. 

It  was  after  this  that  Lady  Fitzroy  congratulated  Nan  on 
her  engagement,  and  kissed  her  in  quite  a  sisterly  way. 

"  Fitzroy  and  I  do  not  think  him  half  good  enough  for  you,'* 
she  said,  very  prettily.  "  But  no  one  who  knows  Mr.  Mayue 
can  fail  to  like  him,  he  is  so  thoroughly  genuine  and  nice- 
Will  the  engagement  be  a  long  one,  Miss  Challoner?" 

"  Not  so  very  long,"  Nan  returned,  blushing.  "  Dick  has 
to  read  for  honors;  but  when  he  has  taken  his  degree  his 
father  has  promised  to  make  things  straight  for  us,  while  Dick 
reads  for  the  bar." 

"  He  is  to  be  a  barrister,  then?"  asked  Lady  Fitzroy,  in 
surp:-ise.  "  You  must  not  think  me  inquisitive,  but  I  thought 
Mr.  Mayne  was  so  very  well  off. " 

"  So  he  is,"  replied  Nan,  smiling — "  quite  rich,  I  believe; 
but  Dick  would  not  like  an  idle  life,  and  during  his  father's 
life-time  he  can  only  expect  a  moderate  income." 

"  You  will  live  in  London,  then?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  1  suppose  so,"  was  Nan's  answer.  "  But  we 
have  not  talked  much  about  that  yet.  Dick  must  work  hard 
for  another  year,  and  after  that  1  believe  things  are  to  be  set- 
tled." And  then  Lady  Fitzroy  kissed  her  again,  and  they 
went  down-stairs. 

Nan  wrote  home  that  she  was  feted  like  a  queen,  and  that 
Dick  grumbled  sadly  at  having  her  so  little  to  himself;  but 
then  Dick  was  much  given  to  that  sort  of  good-natured 
gi'umbling. 

The  visit  was  necessarily  a  very  brief  one,  as  term-time  was 
ai)proachiug,  and  Dick  had  to  go  up  to  Oxford.  On  the  last 
morning  he  took  Nan  for  a  walk  down  to  Sandy  Lane.  Vigo 
and  the  other  dogs  were  with  them,  and  at  the  point  where 
the  four  roads  met,  Dick  stopped  and  leaned  his  arms  over  a 
gate. 

"  It  will  seem  a  long  time  to  Easter,  Nan,"  he  said,  rather 
lugubriously. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied  brightly  to  this;  "  you  will  have  my 
letters — such  long  ones,  Dick — and  you  know  Mr.  Mayne  has 
promise^  to  bring  Phillis  and  me  down  for  a  couple  of  days. 


I 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  387 

We  are  to  stay  at  the  Randolph,  and  of  course  we  shall  have 
afternoon  tea  in  your  rooms." 

"  Yes;  I  will  ask  Hamilton  and  some  of  the  other  fellows 
to  meet  you.  I  want  all  my  friends  to  see  you.  Nan."  And 
as  Dick  thought  of  the  glory  of  this  introduction,  and  of  the 
enyy  of  Hamilton  and  the  other  fellows,  his  brow  cleared  and 
his  old  spirits  returneJ. 

"  I  shall  think  of  nothing  but  my  work  and  those  letters. 
Nan,"  were  his  last  words.  "  1  am  determined  that  next; 
summer  shall  see  you  my  wife."  His  voice  dropped  over  the 
last  words  almost  shyly,  but  Nan  saw  a  great  brightuess  come 
into  ills  eyes. 

"  You  must  not  work  too  hard,"  was  all  her  answer  to  this, 
AS  she  moved  gently  away  from  him.  But  her  heart  beat  a 
little  faster  at  his  words.  No;  she  woukl  only  have  another 
summer  at  Glen  Cottage.  She  knew  that,  and  then  the  new 
life  would  lie  before  them,  which  she  and  Dick  were  to  live  to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER  XLVIll. 

JiRS.  spaesit's  poodle. 

While  Nan  was  being  feted  and  petted  at  Longmead,  Mat- 
t!e's  visit  was  dragging  heavily  to  its  close.  Since  the  even- 
ing of  the  tea-party  things  had  been  more  unsatisfactory 
than  ever. 

Archie  and  Grace  were  a  good  deal  out.  Grace  was  jier- 
petually  at  the  Friary,  and  Archie  had  resumed  his  old  habit 
of  dropping  in  there  for  a  morning  or  evening  chat.  Sir  Harry 
came  almost  daily,  and  often  spent  his  disengaged  hours  with 
them;  but  Mattie  never  saw  him  for  a  moment  alone.  Grace 
was  always  in  the  room,  and  his  conversation  was  chiefly  ad- 
dressed to  her.  When  Mattie  dropped  sadly  out  of  the  talk, 
or  sat  silent  in  her  corner,  he  did  not,  in  his  old  kind  fashion, 
try  to  include  her  in  the  conversation:  indeed,  he  rarely  noticed 
her,  except  in  his  brief  leave-taking.  It  hurt  Mattie  inexpress- 
ibly to  be  thus  ignored  by  her  old  friend,  for  from  the  first  his 
cordiality  had  had  a  sunshiny  influence  over  her— he  had 
been  so  good  to  her,  so  thoughtful  for  her  comfort,  before 
Grace  oauie;  but  now  he  seemed  to  forget  sometimes  that  such 
a  parson  as  Mattie  even  existed.  Was  it  because  Grace's  fair, 
j<erious  face  had  bewitched  him,  or  was  there  anything  on  his 
mind?  for  more  than  once  Mattie  thought  he  seemed  absent 
and  ill  at  ease. 

Mattie  could  not  understand  it  at  all     She  was  not  ^  verjr 


9SS  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

acute  little  person,  neither  was  she  oversensitive  by  nature, 
but  this  sudden  coldness  on  Sir  Harry's  part  was  wounding  and 
perplexing  in  the  extreme.  Had  she  done  anything  to  otfend 
him?  Mattie  vrondered,  or  was  he  simply  bored  by  her,  as  most 
people  were? 

Once  Archie  had  snubbed  her  very  severely  in  his  presence; 
something  had  put  him  out,  and  he  had  spoken  to  Mattie  as 
though  no  one  were  present  but  their  two  selves.  It  was  Grace 
who  called  him  so  gently  to  order,  and  made  hiQi  feel  ashamed 
of  himself.  Sir  Harry  did  not  even  seem  to  notice  it:  he  had- 
a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  he  went  on  reading  it.  But  as  Mat- 
tie  left  the  room  she  heard  him  speaking  to  Grace  in  his  usual 
way  about  some  political  question  or  other. 

Mattie  cried  bitterly  in  her  room  that  day.  Somehow,  she 
had  never  taken  Archie's  snubbing  so  much  to  heart  before. 
How  could  he  speak  to  her  like  that?  she  thought.  What 
would  Sir  Harry  think  of  her,  and  of  him,  too?  Archie'j  con- 
science pricked  him  when  be  saw  the  traces  of  teai's  on  Mat- 
tie's  face  that  afternoon,  and  he  was  very  kind  to  her  all  the 
remainder  of  the  day;  but  he  did  not  apologize  for  hia 
words;  no  one  ever  did  apologize  to  Mattie.  But  to  his  sur- 
prise, and  Grace's  too,  Mattie's  sad  face  did  not  clear. 

It  was  her  last  afternoon  but  one  at  the  vicarage,  and  Mat- 
tie  was  sitting  alone.  All  the  morning  she  and  Grace  had 
been  packing  together,  for  Grace,  in  her  sensible  way,  had 
begged  her  sister  not  to  leaTe  things  for  the  last  day.'  It 
would  tire  her  for  her  Journey,  she  said;  and  the  Challoners 
were  coming  to  spend  Mattie's  last  evening  with  her  at  the 
vicarage;  and  there  were  the  Middletous  probably  coming  for 
an  afternoon  visit,  and  so  Mattie  had  better  kee23  herself  free 
for  her  friends.  Mattie  had  assented  to  this,  and  she  had 
been  very  grateful  to  Grace  for  all  the  help  she  had  given  her. 
Her  boxes  were  ready  for  cording,  and  her  little  parting  gifts 
for  the  servants  laid  ready  labeled  in  her  drawers,  and  noth- 
ing remained  for  her  busy  hands  to  do. 

It  was  a  cold,  cheerless  afternoon;  a  cutting  north  wind 
and  a  gray  cloudy  sky  made  the  fireside  all  the  more  tempt- 
ing by  comj5arison;  but  Mattie  knew  there  was  one  duty  un- 
fulfilled that  she  ought  to  perform.  She  had  promised  to  call 
and  say  good-bye  to  an  old  acquaintance  of  hers  who  lived  at 
Eock  Building. 

Mrs.  Chamberlain  was  not  a  favorite  with  most  people: 
she  was  an  invalid  of  somewhat  uncertain  temper,  and  most 
of  her  friends  felt  her  society  an  infliction  on  their  patience. 
Mattie,  who  was  very  good-natured,  had  often  done  kindly  lit- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  389 

tie  offices  for  her,  sitling  wiili  her  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a 
time,  and  teaching  her  some  new  stitch,  to  beguile  her  tedious 
and  often  painful  days. 

Mrs.  Chamberhain  would  feel  herself  aggrieved  if  Mattie  dis- 
appointed her.  And  she  never  had  stayed  at  home  for  the 
weather;  only  she  was  lazy — tired,  perhaps,  from  her  packing 
— and  reluctant  to  move. 

Sir  Harry  was  in  the  study,  she  knew;  she  had  heard  his 
voice  some  time  ago.  He  often  turned  in  there  of  his  own 
accord,  or  perhaps  Archie  had  waylaid  him  and  brought  him 
in,  for  they  were  excellent  friends  now;  Grace  was  there,  of 
course,  but  Mattie  had  hesitated  to  join  them:  none  of  them 
wanted  her,  she  said  bitterly  to  herself. 

A  dim  hope  that  Grace  might  come  in  search  of  her,  or  that 
even  Sir  Henry  m'ght  saunter  in  by  and  by  and  ask  for  a 
cup  of  tea  in  his  old  way,  had  kept  Mattie  in  her  place;  but 
now  it  was  getting  a  little  late,  and  perhaps  after  all  Grace 
would  ring,  and  have  the  tea  in  there,  as  she  had  done  once  be- 
fore; and  it  was  no  use  waiting.  And  so,  when  Mattie  reached 
this  poiut,  she  hurried  upstairs  and  put  on  her  hat  and  thick 
jacket,  and  then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  opened  the 
stuily  door. 

It  was  just  the  scene  she  pictured.  Sir  Harry  was  in  the 
big  chair  in  front  of  the  blazing  fire,  and  Grace  in  her  low 
wicker  seat,  facing  him,  with  a  Chinese  screen  in  her  hand. 
Archie  v/as  standing  on  the  rug,  with  his  elbow  against  the 
narrow  wooden  mautel-i^iece,  and  all  three  were  talking  mer- 
rily. Sir  Harry  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  laugh  as  Mattie 
entered,  and  shook  hands  with  her  a  little  gravely. 

"  How  comfortable  you  all  look  I'''  faltered  Mattie.  The 
words  came  in  spite  of  her  efforts  not  to  say  them. 

"  Then  come  and  join  us,"  returned  Archie,  with  unusual 
affability.     "  Grace  was  just  wondering  what  you  were  doing. " 

"  I  v.us  in  the  drawing-room  alone.  Ko,  I  can  not  sife 
down,  Archie,  thank  you.  I  am  just  going  to  bid  old  Mrs. 
Chamberlain  good-bye;  she  is  expecting  me,  and  I  must  not 
disappoint  her.'' 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  not  fit  for  you,"  remonstrated  Grace.  "  Sir 
Harry  says  the  wind  is  piercing.  Do  put  off  your  visit  until 
to-morrow,  Mattie,  and  we  will  go  together." 

"  Fy,  Miss  Grace!  never  put  off  until  to-morrow  what  can 
be  done  to-day,"  observed  Sir  Harry,  in  his  joking  voice. 
"  What  is  it  the  copy-books  say?  Is  it  procrastination  or 
money  that  is  the  root  of  all  evil?" 

"  Sir  Harry  is  quite  right,  and  I  must  go,"  stammered  Mat- 


390  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

tie,  made  quite  desperate  by  this  joke;  he  knew  how  the  wind 
was  sweeping  over  the  gray  sea,  and  yet  he  had  not  said  a 
word  about  her  remaining.  Poor  Mattiel  a  miserable  choking 
feeling  came  into  her  throat  as  she  closed  the  door  on  another 
laugli  and  struggled  along  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind.  Another  time 
she  would  not  have  minded  it,  for  she  was  hardy  by  nature;  but 
now  the  cold  seemed  to  freeze  her  very  heart;  she  looked  quite 
blue  and  j^inched  when  she  entered  Mrs.  Chamberlain's  draw- 
ing-room. It  seemed  to  Mattie  as  though  hours  had  passed 
before  she  brought  her  visit  to  a  close,  and  yet  she  had  been 
sitting  there  only  thiee  quarters  of  an  hour  before  she  took  her 
leave.  "J'he  old  lady  was  very  gracious  this  afternoon;  she 
pressed  Mattie  again  and  again  to  wait  a  little  until  Sallie 
brought  up  the  tea  and  a  nice  hot  cake  she  was  baking.  But 
Mattie  steadily  refused  even  these  tempting  delicacies:  she  was 
not  cold  any  longer,  she  said;  but  it  was  growing  late,  or  the 
afternoon  was  darker  than  usual.  And  then  she  wished  her 
old  friend  good-bye — oh,  good-bye  for  such  a  long  time.  Mat- 
tie  thought — and  sallied  forth  bravely  into  the  v/ind  again. 

It  had  lulled  a  little,  but  the  scene  before  her  was  very  des- 
olate; just  the  gray  expanse  of  sea,  with  the  white  line  of  surge 
breaking  into  the  shore,  and  here  and  there  a  wave  tossing  up 
its  foiimy  head  in  the  distance.  The  air  seemed  full  of  that 
coutinuoiis  low  rolling  and  splashing  of  breakers  on  the  beach; 
a  sea-gull  was  flying  inland;  the  Parade  looked  white  and 
wind-bleached — not  a  creature  in  sight  but  a  coast-gnard  on 
duty,  moving  backward  and  forward  in  a  rather  forlorn  man- 
ner, except —  Here  Mattie  turned  her  head  quickly,  yes,  a 
little  beyond  there  was  a  man  in  a  rough  pilot's  coat,  looking 
out  seaward — a  nautical  man,  Mattie  thought,  by  the  way  ho 
stood,  as  though  summer  gales  were  blowing  about  his  ears. 

Mattie  passed  quite  close  to  him,  for  the  wind  drifted  her  a 
little  as  she  did  so.  He  turned  coolly  round  and  confronted 
her. 

"  Sir  Harry!  Oh,  I  did  not  know  you  in  the  least,''  fal- 
tered Mattie,  standing  still  in  her  surprise. 

"1  dare  say  not,"  he  replied,  quietly:  "you  have  never 
seen  me  in  this  costume  before,  and  I  had  my  back  turned 
toward  you.  I  saw  you  coming,  though,  walking  as  unsteadily 
as  a  duck  in  a  storm.  What  a  time  you  have  been.  Miss  Mat- 
tiel    You  ladies  are  so  fond  of  a  gossip." 

"  Were  you  waiting  for  me?"  she  asked,  rather  breath- 
lessly, and  then  colored  painfully  at  her  question.  How  ab- 
surd! Of  course  he  was  not  waiting  for  her;  his  hotel  was; 
just  opposite,  and  he  was  probably  taking  a  constitutional  1>Q- 


i  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  391 

fore  his  dinner.  "  Mrs.  Chaniberlain  pressed  me  to  take  tea 
with  her/'*  she  went  on,  bj  way  of  saying  someihiug,  "  but  I 
told  her  I  would  rather  go  home." 

"  Miss  Grace  was  just  ringing  for  tea  when  1  left,"  he  re- 
turned. "  No  wonder  you  loolv  cold  or  like  a  starved  robin. 
Miss  Mattie.  Why  are  you  walking  so  fast?  there  is  no  hur- 
ry, is  there?  I  think  you  owe  me  some  amends  for  keeping 
me  standing  for  an  hour  in  this  bitter  wind.  There!  why  don't 
you  take  my  arm  and  hold  on,  or  you  will  be  blown  away?" 

Mattie  ahva3's  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  Sir  Harrys  tone 
was  a  little  peremptory.  He  had  been  waiting  for  her,  then; 
he  had  not  quite  forgotten  her.  Mattie  began  to  feel  a  little 
less  chilled  and  numb.  If  he  would  only  say  a  kind  word  to 
her,  she  thought,  she  could  go  away  more  happily. 

"  1  am  thinking  about  that  rejected  cup  o!  tea,"  he  said, 
suddenly,  when  they  had  walked  for  a  moment  in  silence:  "  it 
will  be  all  cleared  away  at  the  vicarage,  and  you  do  look  so 
cold,  Miss  Mattie." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  very,"  she  corrected. 

"  But  1  say  that  you  do-"  he  jiersisted,  in  qnite  a  deter- 
mined manner:  "you  are  cold  and  tired  and  miserable — 
there!" 

"  I — 1  am  not  particularly  miserable;"  but  there  were 
tears  in  Mattie's  voice  as  she  uttered  this  little  fib.  "  I  don't 
quite  like  going  away  and  saying  good-b3'e  to  people." 

"  Won't  your  people  be  kind  to  you?"  Then  changing  his 
tone,  "  I  tell  you  what.  Miss  Mattie,  no  one  is  in  a  hurry  for 
you  at  home,  and  1  don't  see  why  we  should  not  enjoy  our- 
selves. You  remember  my  old  friend  Mrs.  Sparsit,  who 
lives  up  at  Rose  Cottage — you  know  I  saved  her  poodle  from 
drowning  one  rough  day,  when  some  boys  got  hold  of  it:  well, 
Mrs.  Sparsit  and  1  are  first-rate  friends,  and  1  will  ask  her  to 
give  us  some  tea." 

"  Oh,  no,"  faltered  Mattie,  quite  shocked  at  this;  for  what 
would  Grace  say?    "  1  only  know  Mrs.  Sparsit  a  very  little." 

"  What  does  that  matter?"  returned  Sir  Harry,  obstinately: 
"  1  am  always  dropping  in  myself  for  a  chat.  Now,  it  is  no 
use  your  making  any  objection.  Miss  Mattie,  for  1  have  got  a 
lot  to  say  to  you,  and  I  don't  mean  to  part  with  you  yet. 
They  will  only  think  you  are  still  at  Rock  Building,  and  I 
suppose  you  are  old  enough  to  act  without  Miss  Grace's  advice 
sometimes." 

Mattie  hung  her  head  without  replying  to  this.  "What  a 
feeble,  helpless  sort  of  creature  he  must  tbink  her!  his  voice 
seemed  to  express  a  good-humored  sort  of  contempt.     Well, 


393  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

lie  was  right;  she  was  old  enough  to  do  as  she  pleased,  and  she 
would  like  very  much  to  go  with  him  to  Mrs.  Sparsit's.  It  was 
rather  a  reckless  proceeding,  perhaps;  but  Mattie  was  too 
down  aud  miserable  to  argue  it  out,  so  she  walked  beside  Sir 
Harry  in  a  perfectly  unresisting  manner.  Perhaps  this  was 
the  last  time  she  would  enjoy  his  company  for  a  long  time: 
she  must  make  the  most  of  it. 

"  We  need  not  walk  quite  so  fast,^'  he  said,  checking  her, 
for  she  was  hurrying  again.  "  Look  here.  Miss  Mattie,  I 
want  to  ask  you  a  queer  sort  of  question,  if  only  this  con- 
founded wind  will  let  me  make  myself  heard.  Please  don't 
laugh;  I  don't  want  to  be  laughed  at,  for  I  am  quite  in  ear- 
nest. But  have  you  any  special  objection  to  red  hair?  I  mean, 
do  you  particularly  dislike  it?" 

Mattie  opened  her  eyes  rather  widely  at  this.  "  No,  1  rather 
like  it/''  she  returned,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  and 
quite  in  the  dark  as  to  his  possible  meaning. 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  ho  returned,  cheerfully.  "  You 
won't  believe  it.  Miss  Mattie,  but,  though  I  am  such  a  great 
big  fellow,  I  am  as  bashful  as  anything;  and  I  have  always 
had  a  fancy  that  no  one  would  have  me  because  of  my  red 
hair." 

"  What  an  idea!"  observed  Mattie,  with  a  little  laugh,  for 
she  thought  this  so  droll,  and  had  not  the  dimmest  idea  of  his 
real  purpose  in  asking  her  such  a  question. 

"  Don't  laugh,  please,"  he  remonstrated,  "  for  I  am  quite 
serious;  1  never  was  more  serious  in  ray  life;  for  this  sort  of 
thing  is  so  awkward  for  a  fellow.  Then,  Miss  Mattie,  you 
won't  say  *  .No  '  to  me?" 

Mattie  starsd;  but  Sir  Harry's  face,  red  and  embarrassed  as 
it  was,  gave  her  no  clow  to  his  meaning. 

"  1  don't  think  you  understand  me,"  he  said,  a  little  impa- 
tiently; "  and  yet  1  am  sure  I  am  putting  it  very  plainly.  You 
don't  object  to  me,  do  you.  Miss  Mattie?  1  am  sure  I  will 
do  my  best  to  make  you  happy.  Gilsbank  is  a  pretty  place, 
and  we  shall  have  Aunt  Catherine  and  the  girls  near  us.  We 
shall  all  be  as  merry  as  larks,  it  you  will  only  promise  to  marry 
me,  for  I  have  liked  vou  from  the  first;  I  have  indeed.  Miss 
Mattie." 

Sir  Harry  was  a  gentleman,  in  spite  of  his  rough  ways.  He 
understood  in  a  moment,  when  Mattie's  answer  to  this  was  a 
very  feeble  clutch  at  his  arm,  as  though  her  strength  were  de- 
serting her.  What  with  the  sudden  surprise  of  these  words, 
and  the  force  of  the  wind,  the  poor  little  woman  felt  herself 
reeling. 


NOT    LIKE    OTIinR    GIBLS.  393 

"  Stand  bore  for  a  moment,  and  1  will  shelter  you  from  the 
wind.  No,  don't  speak;  just  hold  on,  and  keep  quiet:  there 
is  no  hurry,  j^o  one  shall  scold  you,  if  1  can  help  it.  1  am  a 
little  afraid  " — speaking  as  gently  as  to  a  child — "  that  I  have 
been  a  little  rough  and  sudden  with  you.  Do  you  feel  faint? 
I  never  saw  you  look  sd  pale.  What  a  thoughtless  brute  I 
have  been!" 

'*  No— oh,  no,"  pauted  Mattie;  "  only  1  am  so  giddy,  and 
— so  happy."  The  last  words  were  half  whispered,  but  he 
caught  them.  "  Are  you  sure  you  really  mean  this.  Sir 
Harry?" 

"  As  sure  as  that  the  wind  blows,"  he  returned,  cheerfully. 
"  Well,  that's  settled.  You  ami  I  are  to  be  in  the  same  boat 
for  good  and  all— eh,  Miss  Mattie?  Now  let  us  walk  on,  and 
I  won't  say  another  word  until  we  reach  Mrs.  Sparsit's." 

Perhaps  he  had  taken  this  resolution  because  he  saw  that 
Mattie  found  speech  impossible.  Her  very  footsteps  tottered 
as  she  struggled  against  the  opposing  wind.  Only  the  arm  on 
which  she  leaned  seemed  to  give  her  strength;  and  yet  Mattie 
no  longer  shivered  in  the  cutting  blasL  She  was  no  longer 
cold  and  numb  and  desolate.  Something  wonderful  and  in- 
credible and  altogether  unreal  had  befallen  her — something 
that  had  turned  her  dizzy  with  happiness,  and  which  she  could 
not  in  the  least  believe.  All  she  knew  was  that  he  had  told 
her  that  no  one  should  scold  her  now. 

"Here  we  are!"  exclaimed  Sir  Harry,  stopping  at  a  trim 
little  cottage,  with  a  side  view  of  the  sea;  "and,  by  Jove! 
there  is  the  poodle  himself  at  the  window.  How  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Sparsit?"  as  a  jDleasant,  wrinkled  dame  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  "You  know  Miss  Drummond,  I  believe?  though 
not  as  well  as  you  know  me.  How  is  Popples?  Oh,  there  you 
are,  old  fellow — ready  to  give  me  your  paw,  as  usual!  Look 
at  him.  Miss  Mattie!  Now,  Mrs.  Sparsit,"  in  a  coaxing 
voice,  "  this  lady  is  dreadfully  tired;  and  I  know  your  kettle 
is  boiling—"  bat  here  Mrs.  Sparsit  interrupted  him: 

Oh,  yes,  indeed.  Sir  Harry;  and  you  shall  have  some  tea 
directly.  Dear  me.  Miss  Drummond,  you  do  look  poorly,  to 
be  sure!  Let  me  stir  the  fire  a  little,  and  draw  out  the  couch. 
Bettio  has  gone  out  to  see  her  sick  mother.  Sir  Harry;  but  if 
you  don't  mind  my  leaving  you  a  minute,  while  1  just  brew 
the  tea—"  And  without  waiting  for  his  answer,  the  worthy 
creature  bustled  olf  to  her  tiny  kitchen,  leaving  Popples  to 
entertain  her  guests. 

Sir  Harry  closed  the  door,  and  then  he  helped  Mattie  to  di- 


394  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

vest  herself  of  lier,warm  jacket,  and  placed  her  in  a  snug  cor- 
ner of  the  old-fashioued  couch. 

"  You  will  be  all  right  directly/'  he  said,  as  he  sat  down 
beside  her.  "  The  wind  was  too  strong,  and  I  was  a  little 
sudden;  wasn't  I,  Mattie?"  And  now  the  color  began  to 
come  into  Mattie's  face. 

Sir  Harry  fcund  plenty  to  tell  her  as  Mrs.  Sparsit  brewed 
the  tea  and  prepared  the  hot  buttered  cakes. 

Mattie  shed  tears  of  pure  happiness  when  she  heard  from 
his  own  lips  how  good  and  unselfish  and  amiable  he  thought 
her,  and  how  he  had  liked  her  from  the  first  in  a  sort  of  way 
— "  not  quite  the  right  way,  you  know,"  explained  Sir  Harry, 
candidly;  "  but  every  one  was  so  hard  on  you,  and  you  bore  it 
so  well,  and  were  such  a  good  little  woman,  that  I  quite  longed 
to  stand  your  friend;  and  we  were  friends— were  we  not,  Mat- 
tie?  And  then  somehow  it  came  to  me  what  a  nice  little  wife 
you  would  make;  and  so—"  but  here  Mattie  timidly  inter- 
rupted him: 

"  But  Grace — I  thought  j'ou  liked  Grace  best!" 

Sir  Harry  laughed  outright  at  this;  but  he  had  the  grace  to 
look  ashamed  of  himself: 

"  So  I  did  like  her  very  much;  but  I  was  only  trying  you, 
Mattie.  1  was  not  sure  how  much  you  liked  me;  but  you 
seemed  such  a  miserable  little  Cinderella  among  them  all  that 
I  could  hardly  keep  it  up.  If  they  snub  you  now  they  will 
have  to  answer  to  me."  And  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Sparsit 
entered  with  the  tea-tray. 

Dinner  was  nearly  over  at  the  vicarage  when  Mattie's  step 
was  heard  in  the  hall.  Archie,  who  was  the  soul  of  punctu- 
ality, frowned  a  little  when  the  sound  reached  his  ear. 

"  This  is  too  bad  of  Mattie,"  he  said,  rather  fretfully. 
*'  She  has  no  right  to  put  us  to  such  inconvenience.  I  sup- 
pose we  must  have  the  fish  up  again?" 

"  Miss  Drummond  desires  that  you  will  go  on  with  your  din- 
ner, sir,"  observed  the  maid,  entering  at  that  moment.  "  She 
has  had  a  late  tea,  and  will  not  require  anything  more." 

"  Very  strange!"  fumed  Archie;  but  lie  was  a  little  pacified 
by  the  message.  But  Grace  slightly  elevated  her  eyebrows 
with  an  expression  of  surprise.  Such  independence  was  new 
in  Mattie. 

The  brother  and  sister  had  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  Archie  was  about  to  ring  for  his  coffee  before  Mattie 
made  her  appearance. 

Grace  uttered  a  little  exclamation  when  she  saw  her  sister: 

"  My  dear  Mattie,  we  have  no  visitors  coming  in  this  even- 


SrOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  §95 

ing!  Why  have  you  put  on  your  best  gown?  You  exlrava- 
gaut  child!"  for  Maltie  had  come  into  the  room  rusth'ng  in 
her  green  silk  dress,  and  her  little  dark  face  glowing  from  the 
wind.  "  She  looked  almost  pretty/'  as  Grace  said  afterward; 
but  at  her  sister's  quizzical  observation  Mattie  blushed  and 
seemed  confused. 

"  It  is  no  use  saving  it,"  she  began.  "  Sir  Harry  is  com- 
ing in  by  and  by.  And,  oh,  Archie!  he  told  me  to  say  it,  but 
1  don't  know  how  to  do  it."  And  then,  to  Archie's  intense 
surprise — for  she  had  never  done  such  a  thing  in  her  life — she 
suddenly  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "'  Oh.  Archie!  he 
says  you  are  never  to  scold  me  again — any  of  you,*'  she  sob- 
bed, "  because  I  belong  to  him  now.  And  he — Sir  Harry,  1 
mean — is  so  good  to  me,  and  I  am  so  happy.  And  won't  you 
wish  me  joy,  both  of  you?  And  what — what  will  mother 
say?"  finished  Mattie,  as  though  this  were  the  climax  of  every- 
thing. 

"  Good  heavens,  Mattie!'*  gasped  Archie;  but  he  did  not 
shake  her  off:  on  the  contrary,  he  kissed  her  very  kindly. 
"  Do  you  mean  you  are  going  to  marry  Sir  Harry  Challoner?" 

"  He  means  to  marry  me,"  returned  Mattie,  smiling  in 
spite  of  her  tears;  and  then  Grace  came  forward  and  took  her 
in  her  arms. 

"I  am  so  glad,  dear  Mattie,"  she  whispered,  soothingly. 
*'  Of  course  we  none  of  us  expected  it,  and  we  are  all  very 
much  surprised.     Oh,  dear!  how  happy  mother  will  be!" 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  exclaimed  Archie,  in  great  excitement, 
"  1  will  take  you  down  myself  to  Lowder  Street,  and  see  what 
she  says.  They  will  all  be  out  of  their  senses  with  joy;  and, 
upon  my  word,  Mattie,  I  never  was  so  pleased  about  anything 
in  my  life.  He  is  a  right  down  good  fellow,  I  am  sure  of  that; 
and  you  are  not  such  a  bad  little  thing  yourself,  Mattie. 
There!" 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

MATTIE   IN   HER   NEW   CHARACTER. 

The  family  at  Lowder  Street  were  all  gathered  together 
when  the  travelers  made  their  appearance.  There  was  a  gen- 
eral shout  of  delight  when  Archie's  face  peered  in  at  them 
from  the  dusky  hall  over  Mattie's  shoulder.  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond's  thin  face  flushed  with  the  unexpected  pleasure. 

"  Oh,  Archie!  my  dear  boy,  I  never  thought  you  would  sur- 
prise us  in  this  way!"  she  said,  throwing  down  her  work  with 
tremulous  bauds.     She  kissed  Mattie  affectionately,  but  that 


396  NOT    TJKE   OTTJT-.-k    GIRLS. 

dark  glow  of  tenderness  in  her  eyes  was  for  A.rcliie.  In  spite 
of  her  ordinary  uudemoustrativeness,  she  seldom  spoke  to  him 
without  that  involuntary  softening  of  her  voice.  However 
much  she  loved  her  other  children,  her  maternal  passion  was 
reserved  for  her  first-born  son. 

".How  nanghty  of  you  to  steal  a  march  on  us  in  this  man- 
ner!" she  said,  playfully.  "  We  have  only  prepared  a  meat- 
tea  for  Mattie,  because  1  knew  she  would  not  mind;  but  if  you 
had  telegrajihed  I  would  have  had  dinner  ready  for  you, 
Archie." 

"  Stuff!  nonsense!  why  need  he  have  telegraphed?  I  sup- 
pose what  is  good  enough  for  Mattie  and  the  rest  of  us  is  good 
enough  for  Archie!" 

Mr.  Drummoud  spoke  testily  as  he  put  down  the  paper. 
These  hints  about  the  late  dinners  always  nettled  him.  His 
renunciation  of  them  years  ago  had  been  a  heavy  piece  of  self- 
denial,  for  he  was  a  man  rather  fond  of  creature  comforts;  he 
had  done  it  for  his  children's  sake;  but  it  was  more  than  tlesh 
and  blood  could  bear  that  this  renounced  luxury  should  be 
served  for  his  son's  benefit.  Was  he  not  as  good  as  Archie, 
though  he  had  not  been  to  a  University  and  become  a  fellow 
of  his  college? 

"  Father  is  quite  right,"  returned  Archie,  cheerfully.  "  I 
would  not  telegraph,  because  I  wanted  to  surprise  you;  and  I 
knew  you  were  such  a  good  manager,  mother,  that  you  would 
ha7e  plenty  of  aired  sheets  ready  for  my  bed.  Of  course  what 
is  good  enough  for  Mattie  is  right  for  me.  As  we  are  both 
as  hungry  as  hunters,  we  shall  do  justice  to  anything  you  have 
prepared." 

"  There  is  only  some  cold  meat  and  some  ham  and  eggs,'* 
observed  Mrs.  Drummond,  a  little  plaintively.  She  did  not 
dare  auger  her  husband  further  by  proposing  even  a  chop,  for 
she  knew  how  touchy  he  was  about  Archie's  fastidiousness; 
but  if  she  could  have  had  her  own  way  she  would  have  killed 
the  fatted  calf  for  this  dearest  sou.  Nothing  was  too  good  for 
him  in  her  eyes;  and  yet  for  the  sake  of  tranquillity  she  dared 
not  even  hazard  the  question  of  a  chop. 

"  Cold  meat — that  is  just  what  1  should  like,"  replied 
Archie,  with  excellent  sang-froid.  He  detested  that  stock 
dish  of  the  Lowder  Street  larder,  ham  and  eggs.  The  eggs 
were  dubious,  he  considered — not  actually  new-laid,  but  a  lit- 
tle suggestive  of  lime.  "  But,  there!  you  must  not  give  me 
all  your  attention,  mother,"  he  continued.  "  I  have  brought 
Mattie  home,  you  see,  and  you  have  never  told  her  even  how 
she  looks." 


NOT    LIK-R    OTHER    GIRLg.  391? 

"  She  looks  very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  DrummoiuL  In  spite 
of  her  anxiety  about  Archie,  she  had  been  looking  at  her 
daughter  more  than  onoe  with  puzzled  eyes.  There  was  some- 
thing different  about  her,  she  thought.  It  was  hardly  like 
Mattie  to  come  in  so  quietly  among  them  all  and  take  her  place 
beside  her  father.  Mattie  seldom  did  anything  without  a  fuss; 
it  was  her  ordinary  way  to  staui  among  thim  chattering  as 
fast  as  her  tongue  would  go,  until  some  one  reminded  her  that 
it  was  time  for  her  to  take  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  or  she  would 
be  late  for  tea.  But  to-night  Mattie  had  hardly  oijened  her 
lips,  except  to  answer  her  father's  questions  about  the  jour- 
ney. She  had  kissed  her  sisters  very  quietly,  and  had  asked 
after  Isabel,  and  had  then  proposed  of  her  own  accord  to  go 
upstairs. 

"  Clara,  go  up  with  your  sister.  No,  not  Laura;  you  will 
all  get  chattering,  and  then  we  shall  be  kept  waiting.  Is-abel 
is  upstairs,  Archie:  she  has  come  in  to  sit  with  us  this  even- 
ing, as  Ellis  has  to  go  to  a  business  dinner.  He  will  call  for 
her  on  his  way." 

"  I  am  very  glad  she  is  here,"  returned  Archie,  "  for  1  have 
to  go  back  by  the  early  train  to-morrow.  Ah,  there  she  is. 
Well,  how  are  you,  Belle?"  greeting  her  affectionately  as  she 
came  up  to  him  rather  shyly.  Archie  could  hardly  help  smil- 
ing at  the  contrast  between  Isabel's  brilliant  evening  toilet  and 
his  other  sister's  stuff'  dress.  It  was  a  little  trying  to  his  grav- 
ity to  see  her  putting  on  such  pretty  little  airs  of  matronly 
dignity.  Mrs.  Ellis  Burton  was  an  important  person  now; 
that  was  sutKciently  obvious;  the  plump  little  figure  was  most 
lavishly  adorned.  But  the  round,  childish  face  was  certainly 
very  pretty;  and  as  every  other  sentence  brought  in  "  Ellis," 
and  as  Ellis's  opinion  appeared  always  right  in  her  eyes, 
Archie  deduced  that  his  sister  was  satisfied  with  her  choice. 

*'  Oh,  dear,  Mattie!  how  droll  it  is  to  see  you  homo  again!' 
exclaimed  Susie,  who  was  noted  for  making  awkward  speeches, 
*'  And  how  funny  you  look  beside  Isabel!" 

"  We  are  very  glad  to  have  her  back,"  returned  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond,  in  her  repressive  tones.  She  was  just  refilling  her  tea- 
pot from  the  urn,  but  she  found  opportunity  to  shake  her  head 
at  Susie.  "  People  do  not  generally  look  smart  in  their  trav- 
eling-dress; but  1  think  she  looks  very  nice.  Had  you  not  a 
commoner  gown,  my  dear?  That  looks  almost  too  good  for 
the  purpose;"  for  Mrs,  Drummond's  sense  of  economy  was  a 
little  shocked  by  perceiving  that  Mattie's  gown  was  a  new  one. 

*'  It  is  very  well  made,"  observed  Isabel,  critically,     "  1  anr^ 


398  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    /5IRLS. 

SO  glad,  Maltie,  that  you  have  given  up  that  hideous  plaid:  it 
never  suited  you/' 

"  If  1  had  been  you,  I  would  have  traveled  in  it,"  persisted 
Mrs.  Drummoiid,  who  never  could  remember  that  Mattie  was 
over  thirty,  aud  might  possibly  have  opinions  of  her  own. 
Archie  listened  to  all  this  with  great  amusement. 
"  Don't  you  think  it  is  about  time  1  started  a  pleasanter 
subject,  Mattie?"  he  asked,  laughing.  "Have  you  finished 
your  tea,  my  dear?  for  I  do  not  want  to  spoil  your  appetite; 
biit^time  is  getting  on,  and—''  here  he  glanced  at  the  clock. 

Every  one  stared  at  this,  for  Archie  had  never  spoken  in  ex- 
actly that  way  to  Mattie  before;  and,  as  he  did  so,  Mattie'a 
cheeks  were  burning.  But  what  was  their  surprise  when 
Archie  suddenly  rose  from  his  seat  and  laid  his  hand  kindly  on 
Mattie's  shoulder! 

"  She  is  too  shy  to  tell  you  herself;  I  have  come  all  these 
miles  to  doit  for  her.  Isabel,  you  need  not  look  so  conse- 
quential. Ellis  is  a  good  fellow,  I  dare  say,  but  our  little  Mat- 
tie  has  done  better  than  even  you.  Mother,  you  have  achieved 
a  success  in  one  of  your  seven  daughters:  let  me  introduce  to 
you  the  future  Lady  Challoner!"  And  then,  still  keeping  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  he  looked  blandly  round  on  them  all. 
"  Well,  1  am  sure!''  from  Isabel,  half  pouting;  but  no  one 
else  spoke  except  Mr.  Brummond : 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Archie?  Can't  you  speak  for  your- 
self, my  cirl?  Is  this  a  joke?  Does  he  mean  something 
amusing?"  asked  the  father;  but  his  lip  quivered  a  httle:  if 
it  should  be  true— if  it  were  no  joke! 

''It  is  just  as  Archie  says!''  replied  Mattie,  timidly,  not 
darnig  to  raise  her  eyes.  "  Sir  Harry  asked  me  to  marry 
him,  and  T  said  yes,  because— because  he  was  always  so  good 
to  me."  And  here  Mattie  laughed  a  little  hysterically. 
"  And  I  did  not  think  you  would  object,  father." 

"Me  object!"  replied  Mr.  Drummond,  oblivious  of  gram- 
mar just  then.  "Why,  my  little  Mattie,  what  news  is  this? 
Come  here  and_  kiss  me,  my  girl.  1  am  proud  of  you;  I  am 
delighted  to  think  a  daughter  of  mine  is  going  to  make  such 
a  splendid  match.  Why  don't  you  speak  to  her,  my  dear?" 
addressing  his  wife,  with  some  excitement.  "  Bless  my  soul! 
—Lady  Challoner;  my  plain  little  Mattie  Lady  Challoner!  Is 
it  possible?  Why,  you  were  telling  us_,  Archie,  what  a  Croesus 
this  Sir  Henry  was,  and  how  he  had  just  bought  quite  a  fine 
place  for  himself." 

'_'  Mattie,  come  here. "  Her  children  could  hardly  recognize 
their  mother's  voice,  it  was  so  broken,  aud  the  tears  were  run- 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  399 

ning  down  her  clieeks,  though  not  one  of  them  remembered 
seeing  her  cry  before,  Mattie  never  felt  her  triumph  greater, 
never  understood  the  magnificence  of  her  own  success,  until 
she  saw  those  tears,  and  felt  the  presence  of  her  mother's  arms 
round  her.  Never  since  the  child  Mattie  had  had  to  make 
way  for  the  new-born  brother,  and  had  toddled  away  with  the 
never-fofgotten  words,  "  Mammy's  arms  are  full;  no  room 
for  Mattie  now,"  had  she  laid  her  head  upon  that  mother's 
shoulder  to  indulge  in  the  good  cry  that  was  needed  to  relieve 
her.  Isabel  looked  almost  affronted  as  she  twirled  her  dia- 
mond rings  round  her  plump  fingers.  AVheu  she  and  Ellis  had 
been  engaged,  her  mother  had  not  made  all  this  fuss.  And 
Mattie  was  such  an  old  thing;  and  it  was  so  ridiculous;  and 
her  father  seemed  on  the  verge  of  crying  too.  "  But,  then," 
as  Susie  said  afterward,  "  Belle  did  not  like  her  consequence 
to  be  set  aside;  and  she  and  Ellis  were  just  nobodies  at  all." 

No  one  enjoyed  the  scene  so  much  as  Archie:  that  was  how 
his  mother  ought  to  be  with  her  girls.  Nevertheless^  he  in- 
terrupted them  ruthlessly: 

"  Don't  make  your  eyes  too  red,  Mattie:  remember  who 
will  be  in  by  and  by."  And  as  she  started  up  at  this  and  be' 
gan  to  smooth  her  rumpled  hair,  he  explained  to  them  gener- 
ally that  they  had  not  traveled  alone;  Sir  Harry  had  accom- 
ptmied  them  to  Leeds,  and  was  at  present  dining,  he  believed, 
at  the  Star  Hotel,  where  he  had  bespoken  a  room.  "  He 
thought  it  best  to  make  himself  known  personally  to  you;  and, 
as  Mattie  raised  no  objection,  he  announced  his  intention  of 
calling  this  evening — "  but  before  Archie  could  finish  his 
sentence  or  the  awe-struck  domestic  announce  him  properly. 
Sir  Harry  himself  was  among  them  all,  shaking  hands  with 
everybody,  down  to  Dottie. 

And  reallv,  for  a  shy  man,  he  did  his  part  very  well;  he 
seemed  to  take  his  welcome  for  granted,  and  beamed  on  them 
all  most  genially. 

"  I  suppose  the  parson  has  already  introduced  me,"  he  said, 
when  Mr.  Drummond  senior  held  out  his  hand.  "  What  a  lot 
of  you  there  are!"  he  continued,  as  he  reached  Dottie,  who, 
dreadfully  frightened  at  his  size,  tried  to  hide  behind  Susie. 
Dottie  co/npared  him  in  her  own  mind  to  one  of  their  favorite 
giants.  '•  He  was  so  dreadfully  like  Fee-fo-fum  in  '  Jack  the 
Gia:it-Killer,'  "  she  pouted,  when  Mattie  afterward  took  her 
to  task:  "  when  he  kissed  me  I  thought  he  was  going  to  eat; 
me  up." 

^  Mattie's  dark  little  face  lighted  up  with  shy  happiness  when 
she  saw  him  sit  down  beside  her  mother  and  talk  to  her  in  his 


400  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

frank,  pleasant  way.  In  her  eyes  he  was  notliing  less  tlian  an 
angel  of  light.  'L'rue,  the  room  had  never  looked  so  small 
and  shabbj'  as  it  looked  to-night,  but  what  did  that  mattti'  to 
Mattie?  the  poor  little  Cinderella  in  the  brown  gown  had 
found  her  prince.  By  and  by  the  pumpkin  coach  would  fetch 
her  to  a  grand  house,  she  would  have  jewels  and  fine  clothes 
— everything  that  the  heart  of  woman  could  desire;  but  ifc 
may  be  doubted  if  such  thoughts  ever  crossed  Mattie's  mind. 
That  he  had  chosen  her,  this  was  the  miracle;  that  she  was 
never  to  be  scolded  and  laughed  at  and  teased;  that  he  had 
Blooped  to  her,  this  noble,  great-hearted  man,  to  raise  her  from 
ber  humbleiifiss;  that  he  could  care  for  her,  in  spite  of  her 
plainness  and  her  many  faults.  No  wonder  if  such  happiness 
almost  beautified  Mattie,  as  she  sat  a  little  apart,  surrounded 
by  her  young  sisters, 

Mrs.  Drummond's  stern  face  glov/ed  with  pleasure  when  Sir 
Harry  in  a  few  simple  words  spoke  to  her  of  his  pride  in  win- 
niiig  her  daughter.  Could  it  be  her  homely,  old-fashioned  lit- 
tle Mattie  of  whom  he  was  speaking,  whose  unselfishness  and 
goodnes  he  praised  so  highly?  "  I  have  never  known  a  more 
beautiful  nature:  she  does  not  seem  to  rae  to  have  an  unkind 
thought  of  any  one.  All  my  cousins  love  her.  If  you  will 
trust  her  to  me,  1  think  1  can  promise,  as  far  as  a  man  can, 
that  her  life  shall  be  a  happy  one,"  ISio  wonder  if  the  moth- 
er's eyes  filled  with  joyous  tears  at  such  words  as  these. 

"  Mattie,  dear,"  said  Sir  Harry  to  her  the  next  day,  when 
they  found  themselves  alone-— a  rather  difficult  thing  to  achieve 
in  the  crowded  household,  but  Mrs.  Drummond  had  just  left 
the  room — "  I  have  been  talking  to  your  mother.  She  is  a 
sensible  woman,  aiid  she  thinks  in  six  weeks  everything  can 
be  ready.     What  do  you  say?" 

"  If  mother  thinks  so,  I  suppose  she  is  right,"  returned 
Mattie,  very  much  confused  by  this  sudden  appeal  to  her  opin- 
ion. Sir  Harry  had  already  importuned  for  a  speedy  mar- 
riage, and  she  had  in  much  trepidation  referred  him  to  her 
mother,  feeling  herself  unequal  to  the  task  of  answering  him. 

"  Yes,  your  mother  is  a  sensible  woman,"  continued  Sir 
Harry,  taking  no  notice  of  her  confusion.  "  She  knows  that 
a  great  house  full  of  servants  is  more  than  a  man  can  manage 
alone;  and  so,  as  1  told  her  that  Gilsbank  was  ready,  and  its 
master  waiting,  she  was  quite  of  my  opinion  that  there  should 
be  no  delay.  You  see,  Mattie,"  in  a  tone  of  great  gentle- 
ness, "  though  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  1  can  not  help  feeling 
stifled  in  a  small  house  full  of  people.  There  is  no  getting 
you  to  myself,  or  being  comfortablsj  and  a  man  of  my  sizQ 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  401 

feels  out  of  place  among  a  lot  of  girls.  So,  if  you  are  willing, 
as  of  course  you  are/'  very  coaxiugly,  "  and  I  am  willing,  we 
may  as  well  get  the  thing  over.  It  takes  a  good  deal  out  of  a 
fellow  to  go  through  this  sort  of  thing  properly,  and  I  don't 
fancy  1  hit  it  off  well:  so  we  will  say  this  day  six  weeks.  And 
to-morrow  you  will  be  a  good  little  woman,  and  let  me  go  back 
to  my  comfortable  quarters  at  Hadleigh,  for  one  breathes  only 
smoke  here;  and  how  you  have  borne  it  all  these  years  is  a 
mystery  to  me." 

So  Mattie  let  him  go  cheerfully.  She  had  never  been  selfish 
in  her  life,  and  of  course  she  spoke  no  word  to  dissuade  him; 
but,  though  she  had  but  few  letters  from  him,  and  those  of 
the  briefest  possible  kind— for  Sir  Harry  was  not  fond  of  pen- 
manship—those six  weeks  were  far  from  being  unhappy. 
How  could  they  be,  when  they  were  all  so  good  to  her,  Mattie 
thought?  when  hei  opinion  was  deferred  to  even  by  her  moth- 
er, and  when  her  brothers  and  sisters  treated  her  with  such  re- 
spect and  affection? 

Mattie  had  no  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  or  she  would  have 
laughed  at  the  change  in  Clyde's  tone,  or  at  the  way  Fred 
boxed  Dottie's  ears  for  speaking  rudely  to  Mattie.  In  their 
eyes  the  future  Lady  Challouer  was  a  person  of  the  utmost 
importance.  The  boys  vied  with  each  other  in  waiting  on  her; 
the  girls  were  always  ready  with  their  little  services.  Mattie 
felt  herself  almost  overwhelmed  sometimes. 

"  Oh,  mother,  ask  them  not  to  do  it!"  she  said  one  day, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  am  only  Mattie;  I  am  not  differ- 
ent; I  never  shall  be  different.  I  shall  want  to  wait  on  you 
all  my  life — on  you  and  all  of  them!" 

"  It  is  for  them  to  wait  on  you  more!"  returned  her  moth- 
er, gravely.  "  1  am  afraid  they  have  not  always  been  good  to 
you,  and  they  want  to  make  up  for  it." 

But  not  all  the  attentions  she  received  could  move  Mattie 
from  her  own  humble  estimate  of  herself;  and  yet  in  some 
ways,  if  she  could  have  seen  herself,  she  would  have  owned 
there  was  a  difference.  Mattie  no  longer  fussed  and  fidgeted: 
always  sweet-uatured,  she  grew  placid  in  her  new  happiness. 

"  i  consider  myself  a  fortunate  fellow,  for  I  have  the  dearest 
little  wife  in  the  world,"  Sir  Harry  said  to  her  a  few  days  after 
they  were  married,  when  Mattie  had,  as  usual,  said  something 
disparaging  of  herself.  "  Never  mind  what  you  think,  so 
long  as  I  am  sptisfied;  and  it  is  very  rude  of  you  to  be  always 
finding  fault  with  my  choice — ay,  Lady  Challonerl" 


402  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  L. 

PHILLIS'S   FAVORITE   MONTH. 

Archie  had  been  persuaded  to  remain  until  the  following 
evening,  and  to  taiie  the  night  mail  up  to  London.  "You 
know  you  always  sleep  so  soundly  in  a  railway  carriage,"  his 
mother  had  said,  with  her  eyes  full  of  pleading. 

"  Perhaps  so;  but  all  the  same  it  is  dreary  work  to  be 
shunted  on  to  a  platform  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  to 
have  to  find  your  way  across  London  to  catch  a  Sussex  train." 

But,  in  spite  of  his  grumbling,  he  had  lemained.  For  once 
it  was  difficult  to  tear  himself  away  from  that  happy  family 
party. 

But  all  through  that  night  he  scarcely  closed  his  eyes,  but 
sat  staring  at  the  swinging  lamp  and  his  drowsy  fellow-pas- 
sengers, or  out  into  the  blank  wall  of  darkness,  too  wide  awake 
and  full  of  thought  to  lose  himself  in  his  usual  placid  slum- 
bers. The  fortunes  of  the  Jjrummond  family  seemed  rit^ing  a 
little,  he  thought,  with  pleasure,  llow  alert  and  full  of 
energy  his  father  had  seemed  when  he  had  parted  from  him  at 
the  station!  lie  had  lost  that  subdued,  despondent  look  that  had 
grown  on  him  of  late.  Even  his  shoulders  were  a  little  less 
bowed,  as  though  the  burden  did  not  press  quite  so  heavily. 

"  All  this  makes  a  great  difference  to  me,  Archie,*'  he  had 
said,  as  they  had  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  platform.  "  Two  such 
wealthy  sons-in-law  ought  to  satisfy  any  father's  ambition.  1 
can  hardly  believe  yet  that  my  little  Mattie — whom  her  sisters 
always  called  '  the  old  maid  ' — should  have  secured  such  a  prize. 
If  it  had  been  Grace,  now,  one  need  not  have  wondered  so 
much." 

"You  may  leave  Grace  out  of  your  reckoning,"  returned 
Archie,  smiling  assent  to  this,  "  and  consider  you  have  three 
out  of  your  seven  daughters  provided  for;  for  Grace  will  al- 
ways be  my  care.  Whatever  happens  in  the  future,  1  think  I 
can  promise  as  much  as  that." 

"  Ay,  ay!  I  remember  when  she  was  a  little  thing  she  al- 
ways called  herself  Archie's  wife.  Well,  well,  the  mother 
must  bring  on  Clara  now:  it  would  be  a  shame  to  separate  you 
two.  Look,  there  is  your  train,  my  boy!  Jump  in,  and  God 
bless  you!  You  willcomedown  to  the  wedding,  of  course,  and 
bring  Grace. " 

"  Archie's  wife."  It  was  these  two  words  that  were  keep- 
ing him  80  wide  awake  in  the  rushing  darkness,     A  dusky 


KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  403 

flush  mounted  to  the  youtig  man's  forehead  as  he  pondered 
over  them. 

He  knew  himself  better  now.  Only  a  few  weeks,  scarcely 
more  than  a  fortnight,  had  passed  since  Grace  had  given  him 
that  hint;  but  each  day  since  then  had  done  the  work  of 
years.  Caught  at  the  rebound,  indeed,  and  that  so  securely 
and  strongly  that  the  man's  heart  could  never  waver  from  ita 
fixed  purpose  again. 

Now  it  was  that  he  wondered  at  his  blindness;  that  he  be- 
gan to  question  with  a  perfect  anguish  of  doubt  whether  he 
should  be  too  late;  whether  his  vacillation  and  that  useless 
dream  of  his  would  hinder  the  fulfillment  of  what  was  now 
his  dearest  hope. 

Would  he  ever  bring  her  to  believe  that  he  had  never  really 
loved  her  before — not,  at  least,  as  he  coulrl  love  now?  Would 
he  ever  dare  to  tell  her  so,  when  she  had  known  and  under- 
stood that  first  stray  fancy  of  his  for  Xau's  sweet  face? 

Kow,  as  day  after  day  he  visited  the  cottage  and  talked 
apart  with  her  mother,  his  eyes  would  follow  Phillis  wistfully. 
Once  the  girl  had  looked  up  from  her  work  and  caught  thaf; 
long,  watchful  glance;  and  then  she  had  grown  suddenly  very 
pale,  and  a  pained  expression  crossed  her  face,  as  though  she 
had  been  troubled. 

Since  that  night  when  the  young  vicar  had  stood  bareheaded 
on  the  snowy  steps,  and  had  told  Phillis  laughingly  that  one 
day  she  would  find  it  out  for  herself  that  all  men  were  mas- 
terful, and  she  had  run  down  the  steps  flashing  back  that  dis- 
dainful look  at  him,  he  had  felt  there  was  a  change  in  her 
manner  to  him. 

They  had  been  such  good  friends  of  late;  it  had  become  r 
habit  with  him  to  turn  to  Phillis  when  he  wanted  sympathy. 
A  silent,  scarcely  perceptible  understanding  had  seemed  to 
draw  them  together;  but  in  one  moment,  at  a  word,  a  mere 
light  jest  of  his  that  meant  nothing,  the  girl  had  become  all 
at  once  reserved,  frozen  up,  impenetrable  even  to  friend fchij}. 

In  vain  he  strove  to  win  her  back  to  her  old  merry  talk. 
Her  frank  recklessness  of  speech  seemed  over  for  the  present. 
In  his  presence  she  was  almost  always  silent — not  with  any 
awksvardness  of  embarrassment,  but  with  a  certain  maidenly 
reserve  of  bearing,  as  though  she  had  marked  out  a  particular 
line  of  conduct  for  herself. 

When  Grace  was  in  the  room  things  were  better:  Phillia 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  affectionate  to  her  chosen  friend. 
And  when  they  were  alone  together,  all  Phillis's  bright  play- 


404  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

fulness  seemed  to  return;  but  nothing  would  induce  her  to 
cross  the  threshold  of  the  vicarage. 

The  evening  after  his  return  from  Leeds,  Archie,  as  usual, 
dropped  in  at  the  Friary;  but  this  time  he  brought  Grace  with 
him.  They  were  all  gathered  in  the  work-room,  which  had 
now  become  their  favorite  resort.  On  some  pretext  or  other, 
the  lamp  had  not  been  brought  in;  but  they  were  all  sitting 
round  the  fire,  chatting  in  an  idle,  desultory  way. 

Phillis  was  half  hidden  behind  her  mother's  chair;  perhaps 
this  was  the  reason  why  her  voice  had  its  old  merry  chord. 
She  had  welcomed  Archie  rather  gravely — hardly  turning  her 
face  to  him  as  she  spoke;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  in  her  corner 
again,  she  took  up  the  thread  of  their  talk  in  her  usual  frank 
way.     But  it  was  Grace  that  she  addressed. 

"  Poor  dear  Harry!  We  have  all  been  laughing  a  little  at 
the  notion  of  Alcides  being  in  love.  Somehow,  it  seems  so 
droll  that  Mattie  should  turn  out  his  Deianeira;  but,  after 
all,  1  think  he  has  shown  very  good  sense  in  his  choice.  Mat- 
tie  will  wear  well.'' 

"  You  seem  to  agree  with  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  Miss 
Challoncr,"  observed  Archie,  rather  amused  at  this  temperate 
praise.  "  Did  not  that  excellent  man  choose  his  wife  for  the 
same  reason  that  she  chose  her  wedding-dress,  with  a  view  to 
durability?" 

"  Oh,  tiiere  is  a  vast  amount  of  wisdom  in  all  that,"  re- 
turned Phillis,  with  mock  solemnity;  for  she  did  not  mind 
what  nonsense  she  talked  in  the  darkness.  "  If  life  had  noth- 
ing but  fair-weather  days,  it  might  be  excusable  for  a  man  to 
choose  his  wife  for  mere  beauty;  but  when  one  thinks  of  fogs 
and  east  winds,  and  smoky  chin  meys,  and  all  such  minor  evils, 
they  may  need  somoLhing  a  little  more  sustaining  than  a  pink 
eaniplexion.  At  least,"  catching  herself  up,  and  hurrying  on 
as  though  the  real  meaning  of  her  words  only  just  occurred  to 
her,  "  though  Mattie  may  not  be  beautiful  outwardly,  she  is 
jirft  the  right  sort  of  person  for  a  regular  east-windy  day. 
l>rot  even  a  smoky  chimney  and  a  fog  together  will  put  her 
out  of  temper." 

"  I  will  recollect  your  advice  when  the  time  comes,"  replied 
Archie,  rather  audaciously,  at  this,  as  he  laughed  and  stroked 
his  beartl. 

It  pleased  him  to  see  the  old  fun  brimming  over  again,  fresh 
and  sparkling;  but,  as  he  answered  her  in  the  same  vein  of 
pleasantry,  she  colored  up  in  her  dark  corner  and  shrunk  back 
into  herself,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  could  hardly 
win  a  smile  from  her. 


KOT    LIKF,    OTHER    GIRLS.  405 

*'  My  dear,  I  think  Mr.  Drimimoiid  comes  very  of  (en," 
Mrs.  Ciialloner  said  to  her  eldest  daughter  that  night.  "  He 
is  very  gentlemanly  and  a  most  excellent  young  man;  but  I 
begin  to  be  afraid  what  these  visits  mean.''  But  Nan  only 
laughed  at  this. 

"  Poor  mother!'*  she  said,  stroking  her  face.  "  Don't  you 
wish  you  had  us  all  safe  at  Glen  Cottage  again?  There  are  so 
few  young  men  at  Oldfield." 

"  I  can  not  bear  young  men,"  was  the  somewhat  irritable 
answer.  "  Wiiat  is  the  use  of  having  children,  when  jusc 
when  they  grow  up  to  be  a  comfort  to  you,  every  one  tries  to 
deprive  you  of  them?  Dick  has  robbed  me  of  you  " — and 
here  Mvs.  Challoner  greiv  tearful — "  and  Dulce  is  alwavs  with 
the  Middletous;  and  1  am  not  at  all  sure  that  Captain  Middle- 
ton  is  not  begiiming  to  admire  her." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  observed  Nan,  a  little  gravely;  for,  though 
they  seldom  talked  of  such  things  among  themselves,  "  son 
Hammond's"  attentions  were  decidedly  conspicuous,  and 
Dulce  was  looking  as  shy  and  pretty  as  possible. 

No;  she  could  not  give  her  mother  any  comfort  there,  for 
the  solemn-faced  young  officer  was  clearly  bent  on  mischief. 
Indeed,  both  father  and  son  were  making  much  of  the  little 
girl.  But  as  regarded  Mr.  DruramoPitl  there  could  be  no  ques- 
tion of  his  intentions.  The  growing  earnestness,  the  long, 
wistful  looks  were  not  lost  on  Nan,  who  knew  all  such  signs 
by  experience.  It  was  easy  to  understand  the  young  vicar:  it 
was  Phillis  who  baffled  her. 

They  had  never  had  anysecrels  between  them.  From  their 
very  childhood  Nan  had  shared  Phillis's  every  thought.  But 
once  or  twice  when  she  had  tried  to  approach  the  subject  in 
the  gentlest  manner,  Phillis  had  started  away  like  a  restive 
colt,  and  had  answered  her  almost  with  sharpness. 

"  Nonsense,  Nannie!  What  is  it  to  me  if  Mr.  Drummond 
comes  a  dozen  times  a  day?"  arching  her  long  neck  in  the 
proudest  way,  but  her  throat  contracting  a  little  over  the  ut- 
tered falsehood;  for  she  knew,  none  better,  what  these  visits 
were  to  her.  "  Do  you  think  I  should  take  the  trouble  to  in- 
vestigate his  motives?  Don't  you  know.  Nan,"  in  her  sweet, 
whimsical  voice,  "  that  the  masculine  mind  loves  to  conjugate 
the  verb  '  to  amuse  '?  Mr.  Drummond  is  evidently  bored  by 
his  own  company;  but  there!  the  vagaries  of  men  are  innu- 
merable. One  might  as  well  question  the  ebbing  tide  as  in- 
quire of  these  young  divinities  the  reason  of  all  their  eccentric 
actions.  He  comes  because  we  amuse  him,  and  we  like  to 
see  him  because  he  amuses  us;  and  when  he  bores  us  we  cau 


406  KOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

tell  him  so,  which  is  better  than  Canute  and  the  waves,  after 
all."  And  of  coarse,  after  this.  Nan  was  compelled  to  drop 
the  subject. 

But  she  watched  Phillis  anxious!}';  for  she  saw  that  the  girl 
was  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  The  thoughtful  gray  eyes  had  a 
shadow  in  them.  The  bright  spirits  were  quenched,  and  only 
kindled  by  a  great  effort;  and,  as  the  time  for  their  leaving 
the  Friary  grew  closer  day  by  day,  until  the  last  week  ap- 
proached, she  flagged  more,  and  the  shadow  grew  deeper. 

"  If  he  would  only  speak  and  end  all  this  suspense!" 
thought  Xau,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  real  state  of  things, 
and  imagined  that  Mr.  Drummoud  had  cared  for  Phillis  from 
the  first. 

They  had  already  commenced  their  packing.  Sir  Harry 
was  back  in  his  hotel,  solacing  himself  vvith  his  cousins'  com- 
pany, and  writing  brief  letters  to  his  homely  little  bride-elect, 
when  one  fine  afternoon  he  met  them  and  Grace  just  start- 
ing for  the  shore. 

This  was  their  programme  on  most  afternoons,  and  of 
course  they  had  not  gone  far  before  Captain  Middleton  and  his 
father  and  sister  joined  them;  and  a  little  later  on,  just  as 
they  were  entering  the  town,  they  overtook  Mr.  Drummond. 

Phillis  nodded  to  him  in  a  friendly  manner,  and  then  walked 
on  with  Grace,  taking  no  further  notice;  but  when  they  were 
on  the  shore,  admiring  the  fine  sunset  effect,  Grace  quietly 
dropped  her  arm  and  slipped  away  to  join  the  others.  Phillis 
stood  motionless:  her  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  grand  expanse 
of  sky  and  ocean.  "  It  is  so  life-like,"  she  said  at  last,  not 
seeing  who  stood  beside  her,  while  all  the  others  were  walking 
on  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  Dulce  close  to  the  colonel,  as 
usual.  "  Do  you  see  those  little  boats,  Grace?  one  is  sailing 
so  smoothly  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  other  scarcely  stirring  in 
the  shadow— brightness  to  some,  you  see,  and  shade  to  others; 
and  beyond,  that  clear  line  of  light,  like  the  promise  of 
eterniLy. " 

"  Don't  you  think  it  lies  within  most  people's  power  to  make 
their  own  lives  happier?"  returned  Archie  so  quietly  to  this 
that  she  scarcely  started.  "  The  sunshine  and  shade  are  more 
evenly  balanced  than  we  know.  To  be  sure,  there  are  some  lives 
like  that  day  that  is  neither  clear  nor  dark — gray,  monotonous 
lives  with  few  breaks  and  pleasures  in  them.  '  But  perhaps 
even  that  question  may  be  happily  solved  when  one  looks  out 
a  littlft  further  to  the  light  beyond?' 

"  Yes,  if  one  does  not  grow  tired  of  wailing  for  the  answer," 
she  said,  a  little  dreamily.     "  There  is  so  much  that  can  not 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  407 

be  clear  here."  And  then  she  roused  with  a  little  difficulty 
from  her  abstraction  aud  looked  around  her.  The  others  had 
all  gone  ou :  they  were  standing  alone  on  the  shingly  beach,  just 
above  a  little  strip  of  yellow  sand— only  they  two.  Was  it  for 
this  reason  that  her  eyes  grew  wide  and  trouhled,  and  she 
moved  away  rather  hurriedly?  But  he  still  kept  close  to  her, 
talking  quietly  as  he  did  so. 

"  Do  you  remember  this  place?"  he  said;  "  it  reminds  me 
of  a  picture  I  once  saw.  I  think  it  was  '  Atalanta's  Eace/  only 
there  was  no  Paris.  It  was  just  such  a  scene  as  this:  tiiere 
was  the  dark  break- water,  and  the  long  line  of  surf  breaking 
on  the  shore,  and  the  sun  was  shining  ou  the  water;  and 
there  was  a  girl  running  with  her  head  erect,  and  she  scarcely 
seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  and  she  stopped  just  here,"  rest- 
ing his  hand  on  the  black,  shiny  timber. 

"Do  not,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  "do  not  recall 
that  day:  it  stings  me  even  now  to  remember  it."  And  as 
the  words  "  Bravo,  Atalaiital"  recurred  to  her  memory,  the 
hot  blush  of  shame  mounted  to  her  face. 

"  I  have  no  need  to  recall  it,"  he  returned,  still  more 
quietly,  for  her  discomposure  was  great,  "for  I  have  never 
forgotten  it.  Yes,  this  is  the  place,  not  where  I  first  saw  you, 
but  where  1  first  began  to  know  you.  Phillis,  that  knowledge 
is  becoming  everything  to  me  now!" 

"  Do  not,"  she  said  again,  but  she  could  hardly  bring  out 
the  words.  But  how  wonderful  it  was  to  hear  her  name  jjro- 
nounced  like  that!  "  The  others  have  gone  on:  we  must  join 
them." 

"  May  I  not  tell  you  what  1  think  about  you  first?"  he 
a'iked,  very  gently. 

"Not  now — not  yet,"  she  almost  whispered;  and  now  he 
saw  that  she  was  very  pale,  aud  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
"  I  could  not  bear  it  yet."  And  then,  as  she  moved  further 
away  from  him,  he  could  see  how  great  was  her  agitation. 

It  was  a  proof  of  his  love  and  earnestness  that  he  sulTered 
the  girl  to  leave  him  in  this  way,  that  he  did  not  again  rejoin 
her  until  they  were  close  Lo  the  others.  In  spite  of  his  impa- 
tience and  hjs  many  faults,  he  was  generous  enough  to  under- 
stand her  without  another  word.  She  had  not  repelled  him; 
she  had  not  silenced  him  entirely;  she  had  not  listened  to  him 
and  then  answered  him  with  scorn.  On  the  contrary,  her 
manner  had  been  soft  and  subdued,  more  winning  than  ho 
had  ever  known  it;  and  yet  she  had  refused  to  hearken  to  his 
suit.  "  Not  now — not  3'et,"  she  had  said,  and  he  could  see 
that  her  lip  quivered,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  were  full  of 


408  XOT    IJKE    OTHER    GIIiLS. 

tears.  It  vras  too  soon,  that  was  what  she  meant;  too  soon 
for  him  to  speak,  and  for  her  to  listen.  She  owed  it  to  her 
own  dignity  that  his  atTection  should  be  put  to  greater  proof 
than  that.  She  must  iiot  be  so  lightly  won;  she  must  not 
stoop  down  from  her  maidenly  pride  and  nobleness  at  his  first 
words  because  she  had  grown  to  care  for  him.  "  It  must  not 
be  so,  however  much  the  denial  may  cout  me,"  Phiilis  had 
said  to  herself.  But  as  she  joined  the  others,  and  came  to 
Nan's  side,  she  could  scarcely  steady  her  voice  or  raise  her 
eyes,  for  fear  their  shy  consciousness  would  betray  her.  "  At 
last,"  and  "  at  last!" — that  was  the  refrain  that  was  rinoing 
so  joyously  in  her  heart.  Well,  and  one  day  he  should  tell 
her  what  he  would. 

She  thought  she  had  silenced  him  entirely,  but  she  forgot 
that  men  were  masterful  and  had  cunning  ways  of  their  own 
to  compass  their  ends.  Archie  had  recovered  his  courage;  he 
had  still  a  word  to  £ay,  and  he  meant  to  say  it;  and  just  be- 
fore the  clase  of  the  walk,  as  they  were  in  the  darkest  part  of 
the  Bruidwood  Head,  just  where  the  trees  meet  overhead,  be- 
fore one  reaches  the  vicarage,  Phiilis  found  him  again  at  her 
side. 

"  When  may  I  hope  that  you  will  listen?"  he  said.  "  I  am 
not  a  patient  man:  you  must  remember  that,  and  ]iot  make  it 
too  hard  for  me.  I  should  wish  to  know  how  soon  I  may 
come." 

"  Spring  is  very  beautiful  in  the  country,"  she  answered, 
almost  too  confused  by  this  unexpected  address  to  know  what 
she  was  saying.  "  I  think  May  is  my  favorite  month,  when 
the  hawthorns  are  out." 

'*  Thank  you,  1  will  come  in  May."  Then  Phiilis  woke  up 
to  the  perception  of  what  she  had  said.  "  Oh,  no,  I  did  not 
mean  that,"  she  began,  incoherently;  but  this  time  it  was 
Archie  who  moved  avva}',  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and  a  cer- 
tain vivid  brightness  in  his  eyes,  and  her  stammered  words 
were. lost  in  the  darkness. 

The  whole  week  was  much  occupied  by  j^aying  farewell 
visits.  On  the  last  afternoon  Phiilis  went  down  to  the  White 
House  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  one  of  Magdalene's  bad  days; 
but  the  unquiet  hour  had  passed,  and  left  her,  as  usual,  weak 
and  subdued.  Her  husband  was  sitting  beside  her;  as  Phiilis 
entered  he  rope  with  a  smile  on  his  lips.  "That  is  right, 
MissChalloner!"  he  said,  heartily.  "  Magdalene  always  looks 
better  the  moment  ehe  hears  your  voice.  Barby  is  unfortu- 
nately out,  but  I  can  leave  her  happily  with  you." 

"Is  he  not  good.'*"  exclaimed  his  wife,  as  soon  as  he  had 


ifOT    LIKE    OTIft:R    GIRLS.  400 

left  them.  "He  has  been  sitting  with  me  all  the  afternoon, 
my  poor  Herbert,  trying  to  curb  his  restlessness,  because  he 
knovrs  how  much  worse  1  am  without  him.  Am  I  not  a  trying 
^rife  to  him?  and  yet  he  says  he  could  not  do  without  me. 
There,  it  has  passed:  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  And  so 
you  are  going  to  leave  us?"  drawing  the  fresh  face  down  to 
hers  that  she  might  kiss  it  again. 

"  Yes,  to-morrowl"  trying  to  stifle  a  sigh. 

"  There  are  some  of  us  that  will  not  know  what  to  do  with- 
out 3^ou.  If  1  am  not  very  much  mistaken,  there  is  one  per- 
son who — "  but  here  the  girl  laid  her  hand  hurriedly  on  her 
lips.  "  What!  am  I  not  to  say  that?  "Well,  I  will  try  to  bo 
good.  But  all  the  same  this  is  not  good-bye.  Tell  your 
mother  from  me  that  she  will  not  have  her"  girls  for  long. 
Captain  Middleton  has  lost  his  heart,  and  is  bent  on  making 
that  pretty  little  sister  of  your  lose  hers  too;  and  as  for  you, 
Phillis — "  but  here  Philiis  stooped  and  silenced  her  this  time 
by  a  kiss. 

"Ah,  well!"  continued  Magdalene,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  as  she  looked  tenderly  into  the  fair  face  before  her; 
"  so  you  have  finished  your  little  bit  of  play-work,  and  are 
going  back  into  your  young  ladyhood  again?" 

"It  was  not  play-work!"  returned  Thillis,  indignantly; 
"  you  say  that  to  provoke  me.  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on, 
earnestly,  "  that  if  we  should  have  had  to  work  all  our  lives 
as  dress-niakers,  Kan  and  1  would  have  done  it,  and  never 
given  in?  We  were  making  quite  a  fine  business  of  it.  AVe 
hud  more  orders  than  we  could  execute;  and  you  call  that 
play?     Confess,  now,  that  you  repent  of  that  phrase." 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  teasing  you,"  returned  Magdalene,  smil- 
ing. "  1  know  how  brave  you  were,  and  how  terribly  in  ear- 
nest. Yes,  Phillis,  you  are  right;  nothing  would  have  daunted 
you;  you  would  have  worked  without  complaint  all  your  life 
long,  but  for  that  red-haired  Alcides  of  yours." 

"  Dear  Harry!  ])ow  much  we  owe  to  him!"  exclaimed  Phil- 
lis. 

"  No,  dear,  you  will  owe  your  happiness  to  yourself — the 
happiness,"  as  the  girl  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  "  that  is  com- 
ing to  you  and  Dulce.  It  was  because  you  were  not  like  other 
girls— because  you  were  brave,  self-reliant  gentlewomen, 
afraid  of  nothing  but  dishonor;  not  fearful  of  small  indignities, 
or  of  other  people's  opinions,  but  just  taking  up  the  work  that 
lay  to  your  hands,  and  going  through  with  it — that  you  have 
won  his  heart;  and,  seeing  this,  how  could  he  help  loving  you 
as  he  does?"    But  to  this  Phillis  made  no  answer. 


410  NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

The  next  day  was  rather  trying  to  them  all.  Phillis's  cheer- 
fulness was  a  little  forced,  and  for  some  time  after  they  had 
left  the  Friary— with  Grace  and  Archie  waving  their  farewells 
from  the  road — she  was  very  silent. 

But  no  sooner  had  they  crossed  the  threshold  of  Glen  Cot- 
tage than  their  girlhood  asserted  itself.  The  sight  of  the 
bright,  snug  rooms,  with  their  new  furniture,  the  conservatory, 
with  its  floral  treasures,  and  Sir  Harry's  cheery  welcome,  as 
he  stood  in  the  porch  with  Mrs.  Mayne,  was  too  much  even 
for  Phillis's  equanimity.  In  a  few  minutes  their  laughing 
faces  were  peering  out  of  every  window  and  into  every  cup- 
board. 

"  Oh,  the  dear,  beautiful  home!  Isn't  it  lovely  of  Harry 
to  bring  us  back!"  cried  Phillis,  oblivious  of  everything  at 
that  moment  but  her  mother's  satisfied  face. 

In  a  few  days  they  had  settled  down  into  their  old  life.  Ifc 
•was  too  early  for  tennis  v/liile  the  snow-drops  and  crocuses 
were  peeping  out  of  the  garden  borders.  But  in  the  after- 
noon friends  dropped  in  in  the  old  way,  and  gathered  round 
the  Challoner  tea-table;  and  very  soon — for  Easter  fell  early 
that  year— Dick  showed  himself  among  them,  and  then,  in- 
deed. Nan's  cup  of  happiness  was  full. 

But  as  Ajn-il  passed  on  Phillis  began  to  grow  a  little  silent 
again,  and  it  became  a  habit  with  her  to  coax  Laddie  to  take 
long  walks  with  her,  when  Nan  and  Dulce  were  otherwise  en- 
gaged. The  exercise  seemed  to  quiet  her  restlessness;  and  the 
spring  sights  and  sounds,  the  budding  hedge-rows,  and  the 
twittering  of  the  birds  as  they  built  their  nests,  and  the  fresh, 
leafy  gveen,  unsoiled  by  summer  heat  and  dust,  seemed  to 
refresh  her  flagging  spirits. 

It  was  the  first  of  May  when  one  afternoon  she  called  to 
Laddie,  who  was  lying  drowsily  in  the  sunny  porch.  Nan, 
who  was  busily  engaged  iu  training  the  creeper  round  the  pil- 
lars of  the  veranda,  looked  up  in  a  little  surprise: 

"  Are  you  going  out  again,  Phil?  And  neither  Dulce  nor  I 
can  come  with  you.  Mrs.  Mayne  has  some  friends  coming  to 
five-o'clock  tea,  and  she  wants  us  to  go  over  for  an  hour.  It 
is  so  dull  for  you,  dear,  alwaj^s  to  walk  alone." 

"Oh,  no;  I  shall  not  be  dull,  Nannie,"  returned  Phillis, 
with  an  unsteady  smile,  for  her  spirits  were  a  little  fluctuat- 
ing that  afternoon.  "  I  am  restless,  and  want  a  good  walk;  so 
I  shall  just  go  to  Sandy  Lane,  and  be  back  in  time  to  make  tea 
for  mother."  And  then  she  waved  her  hand  and  whistled  to 
Laddie  as  she  unlatched  the  little  gate.  It  was  a  long  walk. 
But,  as  usual;  the  quiet  and  the  sweet  air  refreshed  her,  and 


NOT    LIKE    OTHER    GIRLS.  411 

by  the  time  she  reached  Sandy  Lane  her  eyes  were  brilliant 
with  exercise,  and  a  pretty  pink  tinge  of  color  was  in  her 
cheeks.  "  It  is  May-day — the  first  of  May.  I  wonder  how 
Boon  he  will  come/'  she  thought,  as  she  leaned  on  the  little 
gate  where  poor  Dick  had  leaned  that  day. 

There  were  footsteps  approaching,  but  they  made  no  sound 
over  the  sandy  ruts.  A  tall  man  with  a  fair  beard  and  st 
clerical  felt  hat  was  svalking  quickly  up  the  road  that  leads 
from  Oldfieid;  and  as  he  walked  his  eyes  were  scanning  the 
path  before  him,  as  though  he  were  looking  for  some  one.  At 
the  sight  of  the  girl  leaning  against  the  gate  his  face  bright- 
ened, and  he  slackened  his  steps  a  little,  that  he  might  not 
startle  her.  She  was  looking  out  across  the  country  with  a 
far-oif,  dreamy  exj^ression,  and  did  not  turn  her  head  as  he 
approached.  It  was  Laddie  who  sasv  him  first,  and  jumped 
up  with  a  joyous  bark  to  welcome  him;  and  then  she  looked 
round,  and  for  a  moment  her  eyes  grew  wide  and  misty,  for 
she  thought  it  was  a  continuation  of  her  dream. 

"  Laddie  saw  me  first,"  he  said,  stepping  up  quietly  to  her 
side — for  he  still  feared  to  startle  her — and  his  voice  was  very 
gentle.  "  Phillis,  you  must  not  look  surprised!  Surely  you 
expected  me?     It  is  the  first  of  May!" 

"Oh,  1  knew  that,"  she  said;  and  then  she  turned  away 
from  him.  But  he  had  not  dropped  her  hand,  but  was  hold- 
ing it  very  quietly  and  firmly.  "  But  1  could  not  tell  the  day; 
aud — " 

"  Did  you  think  I  should  wait  an  hour  beyond  the  time  you 
fixed?"  he  answered,  very  calmly.  "  May  is  your  favorito 
month;  and  what  could  be  more  beautiful  than  May-day  for 
the  purpose  1  have  in  hand?  Phillis,  you  will  not  go  back 
from  your  promise  now?  You  said  you  would  listen  to  me  in 
May." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this;  but,  as  Archie  looked  in  her 
face  he  read  no  repulse  there.  And  so,  in  that  quiet  lane, 
with  Laddie  lying  at  their  feet,  he  told  all  he  had  to  tell. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  can  trust  me  now,  Phillis?"  he  asked, 
rather  wistfully,  when  he  had  finished.  "  You  know  what  1 
am,  dear — a  man  with  many  faults." 

"  Y^es;  now  and  forever,"  she  answered,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation.  "  1  am  not  afraid — I  never  should  have  been  afraid 
to  trust  you.  I  have  faults  of  my  own,  so  why  should  I  wish 
you  to  bo  perfect?  I  care  for  you  as  you  are,  you  will  believe 
that?"  far  there  was  almost  a  sad  humility  in  his  face  as  he 
pleaded  with  her  that  went  to  her  heart. 

*'  Oh,  yes;  1  believe  what  you  tell  me.     You  are  truth  it- 


412  KOT    LIKE    OTHEK    GIRLS. 

self,  my  darling — the  bravest  and  truest  woman  T  have  ever 
met.  You  do  not  know  how  happy  you  have  made  me,  or 
how  different  my  life  will  be  when  I  have  you  by  my  side. 
Phillis,  do  you  know  how  ^lad  Grace  will  be  about  ihis?" 

"  Will  she?"  returned  Phillis,  shyly.  They  were  walking 
homeward  now,  hand  in  hand,  toward  the  sunset — so,  at  least, 
it  seemed  to  tlie  girl.  'No  one  was  in  sight,  only  the  quiet 
country  round  them  bathed  in  the  evening  light  and  they  two 
alone.  "Archie!"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  and  her  beauti- 
ful eyes  grew  wistful  all  at  once,  "  you  will  not  let  this  make 
any  difference  to  Grace?  She  loves  you  so;  and  you  are  all 
she  has  at  present.  You  must  never  let  me  stand  between 
you  two.     1  am  not  so  selfish  as  that." 

"  You  could  not  be  selfish  if  you  tried,  dearest.  How  1  wish 
Grace  could  have  heard  you!  No;  you  are  right.  We  must 
not  let  her  suffer  from  our  happiness.  But,  Phillis,  you  know 
who  must  come  first  now."  And  then,  as  she  smiled  in  full 
understanding,  he  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  held  it 
there.  His  promised  wife — Archie's  wife!  Ah.  the  Drum- 
mond  star  was  rising  now  in  earnest!  His  life  lay  before  him, 
like  the  road  they  were  now  entering,  white  and  untrodden 
and  bathed  in  sunlight.  What  if  some  cloud  should  come 
and  some  shadows  fall,  if  they  might  tread  it  together  to  the 
end?  And  so,  growing  silent  with  happiness,  they  walked 
home  through  the  sunset,  till  the  spring  dusk  and  the  village 
lights  saw  them  standing  together  on  the  threshold  of  Glen 
Cottage,  and  the  dear  faces  and  loving  voices  of  home  closed 
round  them  and  bade  them  welcome. 


THE  END. 


DATE  DUE 

GAYLORO 

PNINTKDINU.S.A. 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  601  395    7 


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